THE 

TAKE/FL 


Daniel 

Carson 

Goodman 


THE     TAKER 


BY 

DANIEL  CARSON  GOODMAN 


BONI  AND  LIVERIGHT 
NEW  YORK  1919 


COPYRIGHT.  1919, 
BONI  &  LIVERIGHT,  INC. 


Printed  in  the  U.  8.  A. 


TO 

ALMA  RUBENS 


2135324   I 


OTHER      NOVELS 
BY  DANIEL  CABSON  GOODMAN 

UNCLOTHED 
HAGAR  REVELLY 


THE  TAKER 


* Lilies  that  fester  smeUfar  worse  than  weeds' 


THE   TAKER 


CHAPTER  I 

TVyTRS.  VERNON  stopped  her  writing,  suddenly  arose 
•^  -*•  from  the  chair,  and  with  her  deep-set  eyes  cast 
ahead,  as  if  seeking  release  from  painful  thoughts,  walked 
slowly  across  the  room  to  the  window.  All  the  time  she 
moaned:  "Oh,  what  will  become  of  me?" 

She  had  the  appearance  of  one  in  whose  life  a  rent  had 
been  torn,  like  one  of  those  widening  chasms  made  when 
a  river  of  ice  suddenly  breaks. 

Then  the  door  opened  and  there  came  in  from  the  hall 
a  fat,  waddling  person,  aged  about  fifty.  Her  sandy, 
unkempt  hair  showed  grey  streaks  and  was  pulled  back 
straight  from  her  forehead,  which  left  a  jagged  line  close 
over  her  brow,  while  a  greasy  apron,  spanning  tight  across 
her  thighs,  looked  like  the  protector  embalmers  use. 

"The  butcher's  here,  Mrs.  Vernon,"  the  servant  said 
calmly.  "Won't  leave  any  meat  unless  we  pay  him.  What 
am  I  to  say?" 

Mrs.  Vernon's  figure  became  even  more  rigid.  Then 
she  glanced  unhappily  at  the  woman  and  answered  with 
a  dull,  wearied  voice : 

"Oh,  Mat  tie,  tell  him "  As  the  servant  placidly 

waited,  Mrs.  Vernon  halted  and  turned  away  wearily  as 
if  searching  for  some  way  out.  But  her  pain-ridden 

I 


2  THE    TAKER 

thoughts  seemed  incapable  of  meeting  the  situation.  "Say 
— Fll  stop  in  and  see  them — say  anything." 

When  she  walked  over  to  the  window  and  sadly  gazed 
out  onto  the  lawn,  the  servant  muttered  to  herself  a 

sonorous  lamentation :  "Poor  woman,  poor  thing "  as 

if  to  ease  her  own  conscience  from  any  further  need  for 
sympathy.  Glancing  pathetic-eyed  at  the  dark  figure  sil- 
houetted in  the  window's  sunlight,  she  left  the  room. 

But  Mrs.  Vernon  could  hear  the  derisive  comment  that 
came  from  the  man's  lips  at  the  kitchen  door,  a  comment 
made  more  poignant  at  the  moment  by  an  odor  that 
floated  up,  as  of  old  pork  or  of  fried  onions  left  to  burn 
on  its  skillet. 

Wrapped  in  a  silent  reverie,  Mrs.  Vernon  stood  at 
the  open  window  for  some  time,  while  the  heat  from  the 
glaring  July  sun,  penetrating  past  her  into  the  room, 
vibrated  almost  visibly  in  its  first  vigour  of  summer, 
brooding  in  waves  from  the  ceiling  and  floor  and  from 
the  fresh  varnish  that  streaked  the  old  furniture. 

In  fact,  everything  in  the  room  was  old  and  time- 
worn;  showing  a  painful  blending  of  want  with  care- 
fulness, remnants  of  better  days  voicing  the  pathetic  sym- 
phony concerning  the  Vernons,  mother  and  son,  familiar 
to  the  ears  of  nearly  every  one  in  Elyria.  The  spindle- 
legged  mahogany  desk  with  its  splintered  roller  top 
thrown  back  and  fixed  by  the  years,  cried  out  its  squeaky 
protest  at  the  faintest  touch;  the  worn  green  Turkish 
rug  in  the  centre  of  the  room  made  a  dry  cracking  sound 
like  parched  grass,  at  her  slightest  tread;  even  the  lace 
curtains  at  the  window  lent  a  brittle  murmur  as  Mrs.  Ver- 
non crunched  them  in  her  rigid  fingers  ...  a  heart- 
breaking melody,  indeed,  bowed  to  the  very  apparent  dis- 


THE    TAKER  3 

cords  made  by  money  lost  and  vain  striving  to  keep  up  ap- 
pearances. 

Only  the  many  pictures  of  an  attractive,  sensitive  look- 
ing boy  in  varying  poses  and  years,  hanging  in  gilt 
frames  about  the  room,  proved  that  one  interest  had 
not  dimmed  and  that  to  it  Mrs.  Vernon  had  been  de- 
voted with  all  a  mother's  love  and  constancy. 

Here  the  resemblance  between  mother  and  son  was 
strikingly  marked.  There  were  the  same  large,  deep-set 
eyes,  with  a  dreamy  spark  in  them,  the  same  perfect, 
though  weak,  chiselling  of  the  nose  and  mouth  and  chin. 

It  was  after  a  long  spell  of  despairing  thought,  which 
many  saddening  days  had  forced  to  become  as  a  second 
nature  in  her,  that  Mrs.  Vernon  walked  back  to  the  desk 
and  again  took  up  the  unfinished  letter.  A  half-dozen 
times  at  least  she  started  to  write  on  it,  hesitated,  tore 
it  up  entirely  and  then  started  afresh,  though  always 
she  had  the  resolution  in  her  mind  to  tell  all  and  open  her 
heart  without  reserve.  And  at  last  she  went  on  with- 
out the  earlier  hesitancy. 

Just  an  occasional  sob  choking  itself  in  her  throat 
or  the  nervous  scratching  of  her  pen  as  it  fitfully  moved 
across  the  white  paper,  told  the  unhappiness  of  her  task. 

She  wrote : 

ELYRIA,  OHIO. 
JUDGE  DAVID  TALBOTT, 

"165  BROADWAY, 

"NEW  YORK  CITY. 
"MY  DEAR  FRIEND: 

"My  boy  is  just  breaking  his  mother's  heart.  The  most 
terrible  stories  come  to  me  from  all  sides.  I  can't  believe 
that  my  own  child  would  do  any  of  the  things  I  hear,  in  his 
right  senses. 

"You  are  my  oldest  friend  and  know  conditions  so  well, 


4  THE   TAKER 

tere  in  Elyria,  yet  I  hesitate  to  inflict  my  troubles  on  you. 
I  really  wouldn't,  did  I  not  feel  it  impossible  to  hold  out  any 
longer. 

"I  hardly  know  how  to  start  writing  you  about  it.  I  have 
had  at  least  half  a  dozen  anonymous  letters  about  him,  al- 
though I  can  trace  pretty  well  where  they  come  from.  I  sup- 
pose I  must  go  right  to  the  point.  Well,  it  concerns  Victoria 
Leeds.  Perhaps  you  remember  the  family.  She  was  a 
Harrison  before  she  married.  Anyway,  it  is  nearly  too  much 
to  bear.  She  must  be  a  very  foolish,  thoughtless  woman  to 
play  with  my  boy  this  way.  Only  this  morning  the  Thomp- 
sons called  me  up  to  tell  me  that  she  was  seen  with  him  last 
night  at  a  place  out  on  the  State  Road,  drinking  and  dancing. 
It  was  months  ago,  too,  that  I  tried  to  make  Leonard  give  up 
his  phaeton.  I  see  now  why  he  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  Even 
when  I  told  him  in  what  circumstances  we  were.  Anyhow,  I 
believe  what  people  tell  me,  my  dear  friend.  And  just  a  few 
minutes  ago,  when  I  started  to  reprimand  him  about  it,  he 
turned  on  me  like  some  wild  animal.  He  is  in  the  next  room 
now.  I  hardly  know  what  he'll  do  when  he  comes  out. 

"At  least,  he  is  actually  forcing  me  to  leave  Elyria.  I 
can't  stand  the  disgrace  of  it  all  in  the  place  where  our  family 
has  gone  on  for  so  long. 

"I  can't  help  feeling  that  this  is  the  end  of  us.  Since 
Francis  died,  everything  has  gone  wrong.  We  are  entirely 
dependent  now  on  the  money  from  the  rents  here — it  comes  to 
about  $3300  a  year.  Think  of  it,  my  friend,  when  we  had  so 
very  much  to  be  thankful  for.  Yes,  it's  sad  indeed — whenever 
I  think  of  what  we  had  when  he  was  with  us.  All  the  cash 
from  his  insurance  has  vanished  as  well  as  what  was  left  in 
the  bank.  Everything  is  proving  to  me  now  how  weak  and 
foolish  I  am  when  it  comes  to  running  my  life." 

It  was  difficult  to  put  down  on  paper  all  she  wanted  to 
say.  A  longing  rose  in  her  soul  to  tell  it  to  some  one 
aloud,  so  that  the  tears  could  be  released,  to  ease  up  the 


THE    TAKER  5 

stifling  feeling  that  choked  her.  She  controlled  herself, 
however,  though  as  she  wrote,  tears,  again  and  again,  fell 
on  the  back  of  her  hand  or  onto  the  letter. 

"I  have  so  wanted  Leonard  to  grow  up  and  be  a  fine  son. 
All  his  life  he  has  been  to  me  just  my  second  self.  I  wanted 
him  to  know  a  lot  of  girls  of  good  family  and  have  him 
eventually  marry  some  day,  so  that  I  could  be  proud  of  him. 
I  have  just  waited  to  see  all  this  happen  and  waited,  I  sup- 
pose, to  see  my  own  youth  born  again.  Or  at  least,  get  through 
him  what  really  never  happened  to  me. 

"Instead  of  all  this,  he  has  queer,  startling  ideas.  And  he 
is  so  precocious  and  wilful  and  won't  study. 

"What  a  fool  a  mother  is,  after  all.  You  know,  I've  tried 
to  keep  myself  looking  young,  just  so  I  could  be  chums  with 
him.  It  makes  me  choke — writing  it  out  for  you  like  this." 

Then  she  stopped,  suddenly  assailed  with  the  idea  that 
she  must  not  go  on  in  this  manner.  A  mother  was  com- 
plaining to  an  outsider,  against  her  own  flesh  and  blood, 
though  the  conviction  shot  through  her  that  she  had 
always  been  like  this,  giving  in  too  readily. 

Reflecting  for  some  minutes,  while  her  idle  pen  tore 
away  crumb  after  crumb  of  the  blue  blotting  paper,  Mrs. 
Vernon's  aching  thoughts  suddenly  were  stilled  by  the 
presence  of  Leonard,  who  appeared  in  the  doorway,  coldly 
regarding  her.  The  boy's  soft  felt  hat,  pulled  down 
recklessly  over  his  head,  apparently  had  been  put  on 
with  some  certain  idea  of  defiance. 

While  Mrs.  Vernon  guiltily  placed  her  handkerchief 
over  the  letter,  he  said  coldly : 

"I  suppose  you're  complaining  to  some  one  about  me, 
aren't  you?"  His  lips  were  pressed  close  and  she  could 
easily  outline  the  tightly  clenched  hands,  dug  so  deeply 
in  his  coat  pockets. 


6  THE    TAKER 

When  his  mother  failed  to  answer  Leonard  went  on 
impetuously,  each  word  with  a  lash  in  it* 

"Oh,  I  think  you  are  terribly  foolish,  mother.  You 
don't  seem  to  know  that  times  have  changed — that  a  boy 
nearly  eighteen  has  some  right  to  think  for  himself." 
He  added  pointedly:  "Well,  it's  no  use  for  us  to  fight 
twice  in  the  same  day.  The  one  sure  thing  is — I'm  just 
sick  of  all  this — I'm  going  to  New  York  to  get  some  sort 
of  a  job."  He  stared  insolently  at  her  for  some  time, 
then  went  on  hotly  again.  "Yes,  I'm  going  to  New  York, 
I'm  going  to  New  York."  And  now  his  mother  heard 
a  taunt  in  his  words  that  held  her  rigid  with  amazement. 
"I  suppose  you  think  it's  a  fine  thing  for  a  young  man 
to  go  to  Elyria's  Best  School  for  Boys  and  then  to  some 
fresh  water  college,  the  way  you  want  me  to  do.  Good 
God,  mother,  every  time  I  have  gone  in  the  gate  this 
whole  last  year  I've  had  to  laugh.  Then  another  thing." 
His  brows  became  furrowed  with  thought.  "I've  beeri 
looking  over  the  future  of  some  of  Elyria's  graduates 
and  there's  hardly  a  one  who  has  staj^ed  in  this  town 
who  isn't  just  clerking  or  bookkeeping  or  something 
like  that."  He  added  earnestly:  "Yes,  I  think  I'm  going 
to  get  out  into  the  world  and  make  money.  This  sketch- 
ing and  painting  that  they're  teaching  me  will  get  me 
about  twenty  a  week  if  I  live  long  enough." 

Just  as  he  was  on  the  verge  of  continuing  his  attack 
Mrs.  Vernon  interrupted,  saying  in  a  whispered,  broken 
voice : 

"Leonard,  dear,  you  are  not  old  enough  yet — to  know 
what  is  right — or  wrong.  If  you  were  a  good,  loving 
son  you  would  listen  to  me  and  take  for  granted  that  what 
I  wanted  for  you  was  for  the  best." 

It  seemed  difficult  for  her  to  word  all  she  had  in  mind, 


THE    TAKER  7 

for  he  hardly  listened.  Though  as  she  watched  him 
a  half  dozen  or  more  reasons  for  argument  scurried 
through  her  mind. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  restless  toss  of  his  head  and  a 
survey  of  her  that  showed  cold  and  impassionate  in  the 
deep  blue  eyes.  He  turned  toward  the  door,  saying:  "Oh, 
what's  the  use  trying  to  explain?  It  wouldn't  do  any 
good,  you  know.  You'd  never  understand  me,  you're  so — 
damned  old-fashioned." 

There  came  a  short  lull  as  he  stopped  with  his  eyes 
toward  the  shadows  of  the  hall.  When  he  turned  and 
came  back  into  the  room  his  face  revealed  with  a  new 
strength  the  antagonism  that  had  come  over  him.  Sud- 
denly, for  the  first  time  in  her  thirty-six  years  of  life, 
she  felt  a  resentment  forming  deep  in  her,  not  so  much 
against  the  wilful  child  standing  so  defiantly  in  front 
of  her,  but  more  against  the  hateful  spirit  gnawing  its 
way  through  the  young  mind  and  heart. 

With  a  sort  of  horror  the  woman  looked  at  him,  as 
before  her  eyes  there  seemed  to  be  creeping  a  vague, 
undefinable  mass,  crowding  in  at  her  boy's  handsome 
throat  and  face,  at  the  mouth  and  eyes,  as  if  to  crush 
out  the  love  that  was  hidden  there  away  from  her. 

So  it  was  that  a  frantic  feeling  encompassed  her,  come 
now  out  of  the  many  months  of  submissive  thinking,  vol- 
untary isolation,  and  her  frail  neurotic  grasping  at  life ; 
a  desire  suddenly  frenzied,  to  get  her  fingers  on  this 
antagonist  and  tear  it  away  from  the  flesh  which  was 
hers. 

In  another  moment  Mrs.  Vernon  lost  control.  With  a 
mad  bound,  holding  the  young  boy  transfixed  with  fright, 
her  clenched  fingers  hysterically  grasped  at  his  face  and 
shoulders. 


8  THE    TAKER 

And  she  cried,  as  the  pale,  delicate-faced  Leonard,  be- 
wildered by  this  sudden  attack,  fought  her  off: 

"I'll  kill  it  first — it  won't  destroy  his  love  for  me.  It 
won't — it  won't,  I  say." 

Only  after  Leonard  had  torn  himself  loose  and  with  an 
infuriated  yell  shouted,  "You'll  never  strike  me  again, 
I'll  leave  here — to-night,"  did  the  mother  finally  come  to 
her  senses. 

And  while  the  boy  ran  out  of  the  room  and  down  the 
carpeted  stairs,  a  wild,  embittering  anger  clutching  at  his 
throat,  the  mother,  stricken,  leaned  against  the  mantel- 
piece, her  eyes  agape,  her  face  wan — her  senses  slowly 
trying  to  clear  away  the  obstruction  of  pain  and  anger 
lodged  there. 


CHAPTER  II 

TAOWNSTAIRS  in  the  hall,  Leonard  ran  to  a  little 

^-^  table  whereon  was  placed  a  telephone,  concealed  in 
a  cabbage-leaf  arrangement  of  yellow  and  red  tissue 
paper. 

In  his  effort  to  get  at  the  receiver  he  quite  tore  away 
the  flimsy  disguise.  His  voice,  however,  as  he  told  the 
number,  was  strong  and  his  face  determined  looking,  as 
if  in  his  mind  there  played  the  thought  that  any  wrong 
he  may  have  committed  toward  his  mother  was  now  sud- 
denly balanced  by  this  assault. 

A  half  hour  later  he  was  seated  in  a  small  red  phaeton, 
alongside  a  woman  some  years  older  than  he,  with  bril- 
liant reddish  hair  and  pale  cheeks.  He  explained  as  she 
listened,  her  gaze  fixed  admiringly  upon  his  face: 

"You  know  I  don't  know  how  it  happened,  Mrs.  Leeds. 
It  certainly  wasn't  anything  I  did.  But  she — just  got 
crazy-like — for  a  second.  Why — "  his  eyes  blazed  at  the 
recollection,  "for  a  minute  I  thought  she  was  trying  to 
kill  me.  I'm  going  to  get  away.  I  am  going  to  try  to  do 
something  for  myself.  I  think  I  see  a  way  of  managing 
things." 

He  thought  a  moment,  then  went  on,  the  while  he  gazed 
hard  ahead: 

"I'm  not  going  to  stand  it  any  longer.  I  can't  stand 
the  way  she  preaches  about  my  future  and  how  compan- 
ionable we  ought  to  be.  Why,"  he  reflected  thoughtfully, 
"it's  gotten  so  now  I  can't  wait  till  I  get  out  of  the  house. 

9 


10  THE    TAKER 

I  believe  she's  just  gone  crazy  from  thinking  too  much 
about  my  future." 

"Dear  boy,"  murmured  Mrs.  Leeds,  regarding  him  af- 
fectionately as  he  rambled  on,  telling  her  that  some  one 
must  have  spoken  about  their  being  together  and  whimsi- 
cally adding,  with  a  half  glance  at  her : 

"I  suppose  they  think  I'm  in  love  with  you,  Mrs.  Leeds." 

She  did  not  comment  on  his  words,  only  looked  straight 
at  him,  quizzically  even,  as  if  it  were  painful  that  he  should 
make  fun  of  something  she  held  sacred  and  yet  not  daring 
to  point  to  this  thought  of  her  weakness  for  fear  of  his 
recognising  it.  Then  she  would  lose  him  altogether,  she 
saw. 

Leonard  went  on  to  say  that  mothers  ought  to  know 
that  a  boy  had  to  grow  up  and  be  a  man  some  time. 
"What  difference  does  it  make,  just  because  a  woman 
happens  to  be  your  mother?"  he  asked  earnestly,  in  a 
manner  full  of  conviction.  "Maybe  it  sounds  terrible, 
but  I  think  everybody  accepts  facts  like  these  too  easilv. 
They  sort  of  don't  think  for  themselves."  He  looked 
determinedly  onto  the  road  for  a  time,  then  broke  out: 
"Which  is  no  reason  why  I  can't  afford  an  original  idea 
once  in  a  while.  I  know  mothers  are  just  things  of  chance, 
like  gambling  for  instance." 

The  young  woman  at  his  side  remained  silent.  When 
she  did  answer  him  her  words  had  a  bit  of  reprimand  in 
them,  only  shading  off  into  agreement  with  him  as  her 
eyes  turned  from  the  reins  he  held,  onto  his  handsome 
face. 

"Well,"  she  replied,  "you  know  some  mothers  don't 
realise  that  times  are  different  than  when  they  were  young, 

Lennie.  But  maybe  you  ought "  She  hesitated,  then 

ended  by  saying:  "Oh,  well,  I've  gone  through  so  much 


THE    TAKER  11 

myself,  Lennie,  I  don't  blame  you  for  wanting  to  go  to 
New  York.  Sometimes  I  wish  I  could  get  out  of  this 
town.  But  my  husband  thinks  the  sun  just  rises  and  sets 
here.  And  when  he  comes  off  the  road  he  wants  to  rest, 
you  know." 

Leonard  interrupted,  apparently  unaware  of  her  words : 
"Well,  I've  got  ray  life  planned  out  differently.  I  cer- 
tainly don't  intend  to  fool  myself  the  way  others  do. 
Maybe  it's  because  I've  seen  so  much  unhappiness  already 
at  home.  But  I  know  one  thing.  First,  I'm  going  to  live 
in  New  York,  and  secondly,  I'm  going  to  get  on  after  I 
get  there.  I'm  going  to  be  hard  and  mean."  He  talked 
more  to  himself  than  to  the  doll-faced  woman  at  his  side. 
"Every  time  I  find  myself  caring  or  falling  in  love  I'm 
just  going  to — to  cut  it  out.  I'm  going  to  be  cold — 
strong.  You  watch  me,  Mrs.  Leeds." 

While  she  regarded  him  with  affectionate  eyes  he  went 
on.  But  as  he  talked  the  idea  confronted  him  that  it 
would  do  very  little  good  to  get  sympathy  from  her. 
"I've  got  to  get  along,"  he  told  himself.  "She  can't  help 
me  any  more  than  anybody  else  here." 

Even  as  he  looked  at  her  he  felt  sorry  that  he  had 
'phoned  her.  Somehow  her  short,  little  nose  seemed  stub- 
bier than  ever  before. 

He  ran  on: 

"Anyway,  nobody  can  manage  your  life  for  you.  When 
mother  called  me  down  so  terribly  this  morning  for  go- 
ing out  with  you — it  was  only  because  of  her  selfishness — 
because  I'm  not  working  out  things  according  to  her 
plans.  I  suppose  she  thinks  I'm  not  able  to  take  care 
of  myself.  Now,  isn't  that  true?"  he  asked.  "When  the 
true  reason  is  that  she  fears  I'd  do  something  on  my  own 
hook  and  prove  she's  wrong." 


12  THE    TAKER 

Without  giving  her  a  chance  to  answer,  he  continued 
impetuously,  though  not  so  much  to  himself: 

"The  whole  trouble  with  her  is  she's  suffered  all  her 
life  because  she's  too  sentimental.  And  there's  never 
been  a  minute  that  she  hasn't  paid  for  being  that  way, 
somehow  or  other.  And  that's  not  going  to  be  my  lot." 

"I'm  sure  of  that,"  his  companion  broke  in,  now  smiling 
at  him,  and  looking  rather  intently  at  his  interesting 
face  and  brightly  burning  eyes.  "You'll  never  care  for 
anybody  but  yourself,  Leonard,  will  you?" 

"Well,  love  isn't  going  to  mean  anything  to  me,"  he 
answered,  looking  at  her  as  if  he  had  been  hurt  by  her 
words,  "until  I've  got  other  things  arranged  first — things 
like  a  home  and  money."  He  murmured  on  with  a  note  of 
weariness  in  his  voice.  "I'm  sick  of  being  poor.  I  think 
I'll  marry  some  woman — about  forty  or  so.  They're  more 
sensible  then,  anyway." 


CHAPTER  III 

IV/T RS.  VERNON  waited  in  her  bedroom  that  evening 
***•*•  while  Leonard,  in  his  room  adjoining,  without  plan 
or  arrangement  for  the  future,  packed  a  small  steamer 
trunk.  Very  quietly  he  emptied  the  drawers  and  picked 
out  shirts  and  underwear,  which  he  placed  into  the  top 
tray.  Occasionally,  however,  he  managed  to  shut  a 
drawer  or  replace  a  tray  in  the  trunk  so  noisily  that  his 
mother,  who  was  listening  in  the  next  room,  would  hear. 

And  the  whole  time  the  mother  waited  and  wondered 
what  he  would  do.  It  had  been  a  terrifying  day  for  her. 
Not  a  word  had  passed  between  them  all  afternoon.  Many 
times  she  felt  she  could  no  longer  restrain  herself  from 
rushing  into  the  next  room  and  clasping  the  foolish,  wilful 
boy  in  her  arms  and  crying  out : 

"Lennie,  please,  please  forgive  me.  I  didn't  know  what 
I  was  doing  this  morning.  Do  what  you  want.  We  will 
go  to  New  York — yes,  anything,  only  love  me — and  know 
how  your  mother  loves  you." 

With  all  her  heart  she  longed  to  do  this.  What  would 
life  be  anyway,  she  thought,  if  he  should  actually  carry 
out  his  threat? 

Then  she  would  reason: 

But  could  she  really  give  in?  How  would  it  be  after- 
wards? Wasn't  there  some  better  way? 

In  misery,  the  mother  sat  and  speculated.  She  had 
heard  her  son  come  in  at  noon,  later  heard  him  go  into 
the  kitchen  for  a  bite  to  eat— and  talk  to  Mattie — and 

13 


14  THE    TAKER 

then  come  upstairs  into  the  bedroom.  She  could  hear 
the  drawers  slamming  now.  And  again  the  clutch  came 
at  her  heart.  Supposing  the  boy  really  did  go  away  ? 

It  was  quite  nine  o'clock  when  she  slipped  on  her 
frayed,  blue  silk  dressing  gown  and  went  back  to  the 
rocker  by  the  window.  Her  face  was  pale,  her  eyes 
sunken,  her  soft  cheeks  marred  by  the  imprint  of  fingers 
which  nervously  she  had  raised  now  and  then  to  her  face. 

Two  different  ideas  at  last  settled  in  her  mind. 

One  was  that  she  could  no  longer  control  her  son,  that 
she  must  give  in  to  him.  The  other  was  that  there  was 
no  one  to  help  her.  There  was  no  one.  The  mother  who 
had  so  hoped  and  prayed — for  more  than  eighteen  years — 
was  helpless. 

Raising  her  aching  head  on  her  hand  again,  Mrs.  Ver- 
non  went  over  the  whole  situation,  thinking  what  had  so 
gradually  brought  it  about,  going  back  in  her  memories 
to  the  time  when  she  was  Leonard's  age,  when  even  at 
eighteen  the  thought  of  being  a  mother  had  filled  her 
mind. 

Recounting  and  recapitulating,  her  thoughts  shocked 
every  once  in  a  while  by  a  noise  in  the  next  room,  she 
went  over  the  mistakes  of  the  past  years,  her  mind  careen- 
ing along  the  highway  of  that  almost  forgotten  time; 
while  her  heart,  seared  by  the  truant  recollections, 
throbbed  open  its  casket  of  remembrances  and  let  out 
into  distracting  flight  all  the  stored  fancies,  the  smoth- 
ered passions  that  so  long  had  lain  there  desolate. 

She  caught  an  impression,  strangely  well  defined,  of 
her  marriage  to  the  tall,  delicate,  almost  effeminate  look- 
ing Francis  Vernon;  the  way  she,  an  unknowing,  seven- 
teen-year-old girl,  had  approached  the  black  clothed  form 
of  the  minister — the  emotion  that  had  welled  in  her  as 


THE    TAKER  15 

she  walked  erectly  along  the  aisle.  She  saw  herself  quite 
plainly,  catching  even  the  fleeting  expression  on  the  faces 
she  passed.  She  could  remember  how  well  she  looked 
then,  how  tall  she  seemed,  and  how  soft  were  her  hands 
with  their  graceful,  tapering  fingers  as  she  put  on  the 
wedding  ring.  Even  the  words  came  back  to  her  ears 
that  the  man  so  many  years  older  than  she  used  to 
whisper : 

"Oh,  Marion,  love  me  a  little,  you  beautiful  child." 
That  was  his  favourite  expression  she  remembered — "you 
beautiful  child." 

She  recalled  even  more  from  these  forgotten  days, 
glimpsing  the  picture  of  one  early  spring  morning  .  .  . 
that  had  changed  everything.  She  was  sitting  in  front 
of  her  dressing  table.  Her  mother  came  into  the  room, 
her  pale,  streaked  face  showing  plainly  the  result  of  a 
tearful  night. 

"Oh,  Marion,"  she  sobbed,  "please  think  a  little  of  your 
poor  mother.  You  know  how  poverty  stricken  we  are, 
and  Mr.  Vernon  is  so  rich.  Please  think  a  little  of  me, 
dearie." 

Her  poor,  selfish  mother.  Oh,  mothers  of  the  world, 
if  they  could  only  know ! 

Mrs.  Vernon  thought  on. 

After  all,  was  she  right  in  denying  her  child  quite 
as  her  mother  had  denied  her?  Perhaps  she  was — as  per- 
haps all  mothers  were — to  blame,  were  selfish  in  hoping 
for  a  continuance  of  their  youth  through  their  children. 

Still,  had  a  mother  the  right  to  direct  her  son's  course, 
even  though  the  boy  thought  he  was  old  enough  to  have 
a  mind  of  his  own? 

Her  answer  came  emphatically :     "Yes.    Only  a  mother 


16  THE    TAKER 

was  experienced  enough  and  had  lived  long  enough  to 
know  what  was  best  for  her  child." 

Mrs.  Vernon  arose  now  and  was  on  the  point  of  call- 
ing into  the  next  room  when  she  saw  that  another  quar- 
rel would  be  the  only  outcome. 

So  she  sat  down  again,  seeking  some  more  decisive 
answer,  some  solution  of  the  situation  that  would  silence 
Leonard — and  still  hold  him  back.  A  dozen  times  over 
she  covered  the  printed  designs  of  the  wall-paper,  asking 
herself  the  question :  "What  ought  a  mother,  who  loves  her 
boy,  do  in  a  case  like  this?" 

And  in  her  soul,  where  mother  love  puts  on  the  guise 
of  unselfishness  and  then  succumbs  to  self-blame  for  the 
possible  deception,  all  the  different  arguments  assailed 
each  other.  Her  first  ideas  guided,  then  became  the 
cause  of  remorse  until  they  were  conquered  again.  And, 
as  always,  the  old  submissive  spirit  in  her  won  the  day. 
There  was  only  one  way  for  peace. 

Going  to  the  door,  she  called  into  the  next  room.  Her 
voice  was  steeled  to  it,  but  with  a  tremor  penetrating: 
"Lennie,  Lennie.'* 

Following  her  words,  she  walked  into  the  boy's  room 
and  stood  by  his  side,  while  Leonard,  looking  up  from 
where  he  was  bending  over  the  trunk,  surprisedly  eyed 
her. 

In  a  forced,  calm  way  Mrs.  Vernon  began: 

"Leonard,  do  you  think  Pm  altogether  in  the  wrong? 
Now,  let's  talk  this  thing  over,  mother  to  son.  Perhaps 
you  will  see  my  point  of  view  too,  Leonard." 

The  boy  stood  quiet  for  a  moment,  apparently  in  doubt 
of  what  course  to  pursue.  At  last  he  said  in  rigid 
fashion : 

"It's  no  use,  mother,  I  tell  you."    He  turned  and  began 


THE    TAKER  17 

to  pace  the  room  restlessly.  "I  can't  stand  it  here.  I'm 
bored  to  death.  I  can't  go  back  to  school  any  more.  I'm 
too  sick  of  it." 

The  colour  came  high  on  his  cheeks.  He  took  hold  of 
the  cord  dangling  from  his  dressing  robe  and  intermit- 
tently squeezed  the  tasselled  end.  After  a  time  he  said, 
looking  up :  "I  am  sorry  that  you  take  it  so  hard,  mother, 
but  if  you  stay  in  this  town  much  longer  I'll  hate  you 
the  way  I  hate  everything  else." 

His  mother  looked  at  him,  her  heart  throbbing  with 
disappointment  at  her  boy's  manner.  "You  must  think 
what  you  are  saying  to  me,  Lennie,"  she  pleaded,  while 
the  thought  flashed  into  her  mind  as  she  saw  his  intel- 
ligent face  cloud  and  his  blue  eyes  sparkle,  that  she  had 
read  somewhere  that  this  wilfulness  was  a  disease,  just 
like  the  desire  to  kill  or  steal. 

However,  her  appeal  brought  only  a  more  defiant 
argument.  "It's  no  use,  mother.  You  don't  know  how 
unhappy  I've  been  for  a  long  time.  Why,  what  chance 
have  I  got  here?  I've  some  ambitions  of  my  own,  you 
know.  You  might  as  well  know  it  now.  I  must  live  my 
own  life." 

Mrs.  Vernon  gazed  unhappily  at  the  temper-ridden  boy. 
But  she  remained  silent,  only  shrinking  a  little  more  from 
him  as  he  continued  impulsively,  aroused  to  a  bolder  stand. 
Leaning  against  the  grey  marble  mantel-piece,  he  went  on 
vindictively,  pointing  out  the  injustice  done  him  by  hold- 
ing him  in  a  small  town,  away  from  all  opportunity. 

"Why,"  he  argued,  "you're  just  selfish,  mother.  You 
want  me  to  stay  with  you  because  you  would  be  lonely 
without  me.  Well,  it's  not  my  fault  now,  is  it — that  I 
was  born?  Then  why  didn't  you  marry  again  when  fa- 
ther died?"  He  moved  restlessly  toward  her.  "And  have 


18  THE    TAKER 

another  child?  You  see,  you've  never  watched  the  prac- 
tical side  of  things  and  now  you're  just  afraid  of  suffering 
for  it." 

The  mother  appeared  aghast  at  the  convincing  manner 
he  was  using  and  the  cold  tones  of  his  argument.  It 
seemed  as  if  she  were  inarticulate  from  amazement,  for, 
though  her  lips  were  silent  and  her  eyes  gazed  appealingly 
at  him,  her  thin  long  fingers  were  never  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment, moving  from  the  edge  of  the  mantel  to  her  buttons 
and  then  to  her  forehead,  again  and  again. 

And  Leonard  was  aware  of  the  agony  he  was  causing 
her.  Following  his  words  much  in  the  manner  of  a  lawyer 
who  watches  his  jury,  he  told  her  how  they  could  go 
into  New  York  and  become  happy  and  successful. 

"Why,  mother,"  he  said,  "you  could  go  into  New  York 
and  land  somebody  yourself — if  you  didn't  think  you  were 
so  old.  Then  we  could  have  a  decent  home  and  I  could 
have  a  better  chance  that  way."  Turning  toward  the 
window,  he  stared  out  into  the  street  for  a  time,  saying 
more  to  himself  than  to  her:  "But  it's  no  use,  you  know. 
All  you  want  to  do  is  to  stay  here  in  Elyria  and  think 
about  your  life  being  over  and  getting  your  youth  through 
me,  and  rot  like  that." 

Suddenly  the  thoughts  of  the  morning  appeared  to 
have  come  back  to  him,  for  his  rebellion  was  even  greater 
than  ever.  In  words  that  came  to  his  mother's  ears  like 
cold  steel,  he  exclaimed: 

"Anyway,  I  don't  believe  there  is  any  love  lost  be- 
tween us,  mother." 

Conscious  of  the  unrelenting  expression  that  was  set- 
tling over  his  wilful  face  and  as  if  anxious  to  stop  his 
train  of  thought  before  it  went  beyond  his  control,  Mrs. 
Vernon  burst  out: 


THE    TAKER  19 

"Oh,  child,  where  have  you  learned  all  this?  You  talk 
more  like  a  woman  than  a  man — my  son." 

Suddenly  she  burst  into  tears.  The  stress  of  the  day 
apparently  had  found  its  vent.  Laughing  strangely  for 
a  moment,  she  quite  as  abruptly  went  into  convulsive  sobs. 
This  she  kept  up  for  some  minutes,  while  Leonard  stood 
regarding  her,  only  after  some  time  entreating  her  to 
calm  herself  and  not  carry  on  so. 

Soon,  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  face,  Mrs.  Vernon 
turned  and  ran  from  the  room.  The  expression  on  her 
face  told  plainly  now  of  the  wild  thoughts  in  her  mind. 
Why  should  she  go  on  living  when  there  was  nothing 
to  live  for?  If  she  were  not  here,  could  not  Leonard  go 
on  unhampered  and  amount  to  something?  If  she  were 
dead — perhaps  it  would  be  far  easier,  for  then  she  would 
never  know  how  the  child  who  meant  everything  to  her 
had  suffered  from  his  queer,  selfish,  emotional  nature. 

She  would  kill  herself.  That  would  be  the  only  way 
out. 

It  was  in  this  fashion  Mrs.  Vernon  reasoned  as  she 
flung  herself  on  the  bed  in  her  room. 

While  Leonard  stood  quietly  wondering  what  to  do, 
it  suddenly  struck  him  that  something  might  have  hap- 
pened to  her. 

Then  he,  too,  ran  out  into  the  hall  and  followed  into 
the  next  room  and  saw  her,  lying  outstretched  across  the 
white  lace  spread,  sobbing  with  deep  stifled  cries  that 
shook  her  entire  body. 

As  he  stood  looking  down  upon  her  Leonard's  tower 
of  determination  was  shaken,  and  he  bent  over  her,  put- 
ting his  arms  around  the  quaking  body,  holding  her  tight, 
until  it  seemed  that  the  hysteria  had  eased  off.  He  even 


20  THE    TAKER 

found  tears  rushing  to  his  own  eyes,  which  he  fought 
back  resolutely. 

And  he  cried:  "Mother,  mother,  please  don't  carry  on 
so.  Please,  please  don't.  I'm  sorry  I  hurt  you.  I  only 
want  you  to  understand." 

But  his  mother  lay  motionless  and,  except  for  deep 
racking  sobs  that  escaped  now  and  then,  she  seemed  una- 
ware that  her  son  was  near  her. 

Only  after  a  time  did  she  impetuously  take  hold  of 
his  face  and  frame  it  with  her  trembling  hands.  And 
then,  apparently  forgetting  all  the  cruel  imputations,  all 
the  heartless  words,  remembering  nothing  nor  asking  for 
reasons,  but  only  swayed  by  a  mother's  natural  in- 
stincts, she  threw  her  white  arms  about  the  boy's  slender 
body  and  cried  out  as  she  gazed  at  him : 

"Lennie,  my  son,  you  don't  know  what  this  day  has  done 
to  me.  I've  seen  your  father  in  you — for  the  first  time. 
And  you — can't  know  what  unhappiness  he  brought  me.'* 

They  lay  together,  cheek  against  cheek,  which  seemed 
to  ease  her  hysteria  somewhat,  while  with  trembling  fin- 
gers she  smoothed  back  his  soft  brown  hair,  saying  as  she 
stroked  it: 

"Darling,  listen  to  me.  Perhaps  your  mother  is  dif- 
ferent from  most  mothers,  for  every  thought  and  every 
desire  she  has  had  for  over  eighteen  years  has  been  for 
her  little  baby." 

Leonard  replied  restlessly :  "Yes,  I  know,  mother." 

Now  Mrs.  Vernon  ran  on  to  more  and  more  self- 
scanning,  whispering,  as  she  gave  his  soft  hands  a  pas- 
sionate squeeze,  that  she  alone  was  to  blame  and  was 
only  getting  what  she  deserved.  As  if  making  herself 
a  little  more  pathetic  might  move  the  child  to  repent,  she 
started  to  say  that  which  lay  uppermost  in  her  mind — 


THE    TAKER  21 

how  years  before  she  had  thought  many  times  of  run- 
ning away  from  her  husband,  how  it  had  only  been  the 
baby  that  held  her  back  until  too  late. 

However,  she  controlled  herself,  and  tranquilly  enough 
said,  as  she  looked  deep  into  the  boy's  eyes:  "Yes,  my 
son,  I  am  getting  what  I  deserve.  I  never  cared  for  your 
father.  I  married  him  for  the  money  he  had.  I  wanted, 
a  home.  Yes,  I'm  getting  what  I  deserve.'* 

Leonard  watched  her  closely  while  she  told  more  in 
detail  of  her  struggles  at  that  time.  And  how  her 
mother  had  suffered. 

"Yes,"  she  added,  "it  was  more  for  my  mother  than  for 
myself,  dear."  Now  she  seemed  to  forget  entirely  how 
prostrated  she  had  been.  Getting  up  from  the  bed,  she 
went  to  the  bureau  and  took  out  of  a  drawer  an  old 
daguerreotype,  explaining,  after  she  had  come  back  and 
showed  it  to  Leonard,  that  she  had  saved  it  for  nearly 
eighteen  years.  She  talked  about  this  picture  in  a  voice 
full  of  reminiscent  sadness,  a  voice  that  ended  always  in  a 
languorous  murmuring  protest  against  things  having  been 
that  way.  Only  as  she  felt  more  sympathetic  understand- 
ing from  him  did  her  voice  lose  its  weariness  and  her  eyes 
open. 

But  Leonard  knew  that  in  the  end  he  must  not  give 
in  and  to  keep  his  purpose  clear  in  mind  kept  repeating 
this  resolve  to  himself,  even  as  the  mother  indulged  in 
more  and  more  self-revealing.  And  as  she  told  of  her 
years  of  travail,  Leonard  noticed  how  tensely  drawn  her 
lips  had  become  and  how  sad  were  her  eyes — the  expres- 
sive sadness  that  comes  when  one  recalls  the  past. 

Mrs.  Vernon  continued: 

"So  I  had  my  punishment,  dear.  I  could  have  married 
another  man.  He  is  a  judge  now  and  has  a  fine,  happy 


22  THE    TAKER 

family.  And  I  married  a  man  I  didn't  love — because  the 
man  had  money.  And  God  made  me  suffer  by  giving  me 
affection  that  I  didn't  want."  She  paused,  then  thought 
aloud:  "Oh,  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  make  that  mistake, 
Lennie.  I  see  the  way  clearly  now." 

She  went  on  to  tell  him  how  she  had  planned  for  him 
to  marry  some  noble  girl  and  how  she  had  looked  forward 
to  the  time  when  she  could  kiss  his  little  babies.  "Oh, 
God  knows  that  thought  was  sweet  music  to  my  mind!" 
she  cried.  "I  hate  to  give  up  that  hope,  Lennie." 

As  if  overtaken  by  some  outburst  from  a  hidden  well 
of  truth,  now  she  told  Leonard  all  that  had  been  searing 
her.  Imploringly,  half  crazed  by  the  anxiety  that  stifled 
her  at  the  thought  of  how  her  child  would  be  far  away 
from  her,  she  went  on,  though  in  her  words  was  the 
tone  of  one  who  knows  the  futility  of  her  plea. 

"I  want  you  to  know  all  this,  my  son,"  she  said  ear- 
nestly. "I  held  back  during  his  whole  life,  Lennie,  just 
waiting — waiting  for  you."  She  searched  his  face.  "Per- 
haps you  see  the  reason  now  why  I  wanted  to  get  some 
happiness  from  you." 

Some  joy  came  to  her  at  the  moment,  for  she  per- 
ceived that  the  expression  in  the  boy's  eyes  had  softened, 
as  if  there  were  tears  coming.  But  her  happiness  was 
short-lived,  for  suddenly  Leonard  jumped  from  the  bed 
and  began  walking  back  and  forth  in  front  of  the  win- 
dows, more  restless  and  defiant  than  ever. 

"I  want  to  have  some  fun,"  he  nearly  shouted.  "I  want 
to  have  my  chance  to  be  somebody.  Can't  you  under- 
stand?" 

Instantly  she  stopped  him.  "Leonard,  you've  got 
strange  ideas  about  life.  I'm  afraid  you  are  going  to  be 
very  unhappy  some  day."  Then  she  said,  as  if  she  had 


THE    TAKER  23 

been  hurt:  "You  ignore  me  entirely — you  seem  to  forget 
that  I  brought  you  into  the  world  and  have  a  right  to 
want  to  love  you."  She  murmured  on,  the  old  sadness 
trailing  into  her  thoughts: 

"I  raised  you  and  watched  over  you,  just  to  bring 
you  to  what  you  are  to-day.  I  felt  that  all  this  was 
worth  waiting  for,  Lennie.  'And  yet  you  think  that  it 
is  only  the  big  city  and  wealth  that  will  make  you 
happy.  And  I  know — that  it's  only  love  that  can  do 
it."  She  thought  for  a  time,  then  said :  "Just  so  you  find 
it  when  you're  young.  All  the  rest  comes  after  that. 
And  if  love  means  nothing  to  you,  Lennie,  I  am  terribly 
afraid  for  you." 

Leonard's  attention  was  attracted  by  the  strange 
breaking  tremolo  in  his  mother's  words.  Fearing  another 
paroxysm  of  anguish,  without  much  notice  of  what  had 
brought  it  on,  he  took  hold  of  her  pale  hands  and  said, 
softly,  as  if  to  match  up  with  her  mood : 

"Mother,  I'm  so  terribly  sorry  for  you.  Indeed  I  am. 
You  don't  know  how  sorry  I  am  that  you  have  suffered 
so." 

Silence  came  between  them  after  this,  though  a  strange 
curiosity  came  into  the  mother's  eyes  and  manner,  which 
rather  startled  Leonard.  For  some  time  Mrs.  Vernon 
looked  at  him  and  then  nodded  her  head  affirmatively, 
as  if  finding  the  truth  of  thoughts  hidden  in  her  mind. 

And  at  last  she  cried  out:  "Oh,  I'll  give  in  to  you! 
Well  sell  everything  and  move  to  New  York.  I'll  let 
you  do  as  you  please,  but — oh,  my  poor  boy ! — God  knows 
what  will  happen  to  us." 


CHAPTER  IV 

"JV/TOVING  into  New  York  was  not  the  simple  proce- 
•*>"•••  dure  that  Leonard  had  thought  it.  Although  he 
troubled  very  little  about  it,  leaving  everything  to  his 
mother  while  he  lent  himself  entirely  to  the  bewildering 
glamour  of  riches  and  busy  life  that  confronted  him. 

He  roamed  up  and  down  Fifth  Avenue,  drinking  in 
the  city's  veneer  like  some  young  adventurer  from  a 
desert  slaking  his  thirst.  And  at  night,  when  he  went  up 
to  the  third  floor  of  the  crumpling  brownstone  house  on 
Fifty-fifth  Street  where  they  had  their  rooms,  he  shut 
his  eyes  to  the  horror  of  the  reality  surrounding  him  by 
telling  his  mother  again  and  again  how  wonderful  it  all 
was. 

"Why,  everybody  is  rich  here,  mother.  The  poor  peo- 
ple don't  count,  they  don't  exist." 

This  statement  became  a  chronic  apology  for  the  weary 
questions  she  asked  of  him  on  his  return  from  his  job 
hunting  expeditions.  It  had  come  down  to  a  necessary 
acknowledgment  of  failure  within  the  first  six  weeks  of 
their  new  residence.  Judge  Talbott,  whom  the  good- 
looking  Leonard  had  sought  out  during  the  first  days, 
turned  him  off  in  a  manner  that  only  Mrs.  Vernon  was 
acquainted  with.  Calling  the  mother  on  the  'phone  the 
next  morning  after  Leonard's  visit  to  him,  the  Judge 
said  politely,  sadly,  sympathetically : 

"Dear,  dear,  what  can  I  tell  you?  Your  son  is  a  won- 
derfully handsome  fellow,  but  I  don't  dare  recommend 

24 


THE    TAKER  25 

him  to  any  position  of  responsibility.  Why,  he  sat  here 
yesterday  in  his  white  and  black  checked  vest  and  patent- 
leather  shoes  hardly  conscious  of  what  I  was  talking 
about.  When  I  mentioned  starting  at  the  bottom  he 
sneered  at  me.  Oh,  my  poor  dear  woman !" 

Leonard  began  now  to  lose  his  courage,  which  worried 
the  mother  even  more,  and  she  did  everything  in  her 
power  to  cheer  him  up  and  make  him  understand  that  it 
was  only  because  his  gifts  were  so  different  from  others 
that  he  found  so  little  appreciation.  She  gave  him  more 
money  to  spend  than  they  could  afford,  she  made  him 
stop  his  job  hunting  altogether  so  that  he  might  further 
his  studies  in  art. 

These  were  indeed  harassing  times.  Leonard  would 
rush  out  of  the  house  the  moment  a  meal  was  over  and, 
with  a  few  dollars  in  his  pocket,  embark  on  expeditions 
that  she  no  longer  stopped  to  question.  However,  time 
and  again  she  caught  the  faint  odour  of  liquor  on  his 
breath  as  he  came  in  late  and  kissed  her  good-night.  The 
'phone  rang  constantly  too,  and  the  voices  were  always 
either  too  mature  in  their  tones  or  else  too  childlike  and 
petulant. 

So  the  days  repeated  themselves,  end  on  end,  until  Mrs. 
Vernon  could  stand  it  no  longer.  Calling  him  into  her 
room  one  night,  she  said  to  him  as  sympathetically  as 
possible : 

"Leonard,  what  are  you  doing  with  your  time?" 

Somehow  he  appeared  ready  with  his  sullen  answer. 

"Well,  mother,  I'll  tell  you.  I've  stayed  in  this  town 
long  enough  to  know  that  it's  only  the  big  game  that's 
worth  while  going  after.  You  can  work  all  your  life,  see, 
or  you  can  get  people  to  work  for  you  all  your  life." 
He  ^gathered  force  in  his  remarks  as  he  went  on.  "I've 


26  THE    TAKER 

been  figuring  it  out.  People  are  either  victims  or  not, 
in  this  world.  I'm  not  going  to  take  a  job  unless  it's 
got  a  chance,  a  real  chance,  to  get  me  some  place." 

His  mother  shrank  from  his  commonplace  manner  as 
if  he  were  shooting  poison  darts  at  her.  As  he  went  on 
she  could  only  repeat  to  herself  the  words  that  he  had 
never  stooped  to  before — "See" — "Understand." 

"I'm  going  to  drive  big  or  not  at  all,  understand.  I'd 
rather  starve  than  have  to  eat  bread  and  butter  all  my 
life." 

For  the  first  time  the  mother  became  really  aware  of 
what  ingredients  were  in  her  son's  make-up.  And  after 
that  she  went  on  in  her  heart-broken  way,  never  molest- 
ing him  or  trying  to  make  him  view  what  would  be  the 
eventual  outcome  of  his  new  philosophy. 

Until  one  day,  near  the  end  of  their  twelfth  month. 

For  weeks  Mrs.  Vernon  had  gone  back  to  spending  her 
time  sitting  by  the  window  thinking  and  reflecting,  and 
now  her  thoughts  were  just  as  disabling  to  her  confidence 
in  the  future  as  they  had  been  in  the  years  before  at 
Elyria.  Only  the  accompaniment  was  different.  Instead 
of  birds  in  the  trees  or  children  running  past  whom  she 
had  known  from  their  infancy,  there  was  now  the  brutal 
chugging  of  automobiles  in  the  row  of  garages  opposite. 
She  sat  thinking  over  the  change  that  had  come  to  her 
baby  boy.  She  saw  him  slowly  absorb  the  city's  false 
manner  of  wealth.  One  habit  after  another  had  taken 
hold  of  him.  His  hair  was  glistening  much  darker  now 
with  a  brilliantine  and  polished  down  to  a  mirror-like  sur- 
face, his  nails  were  shiny  to  a  pinkish  white. 

That  night  she  stopped  him  just  as  they  rose  from 
the  dinner  table.  Leonard  had  already  made  his  way 
into  the  hall  for  his  coat  and  hat  before  he  really  listened 


THE    TAKER  27! 

to  her  call,  and  he  actually  showed  his  resentment  when 
she  gently  took  hold  of  his  arm,  as  if  his  thoughts  should 
not  be  intruded  upon.  It  might  have  been  the  tears,  sud- 
denly glistening  in  his  mother's  eyes  and  which  she  fought 
back  with  all  the  control  she  could  muster,  that  arrested 
him. 

"Leonard,"  she  cried,  "why  won't  you  tell  me  all  that 
you  are  doing?  Why  do  you  leave  me  here  alone  night 
after  night?  Don't  you  know  how  I  worry?" 

He  lifted  his  drooping  head  just  enough  to  return  her 
piteous  gaze.  When  finally  he  did  manage  to  answer 
her,  he  groped  awkwardly  for  his  words,  which  more  em- 
phatically than  ever  brought  to  the  mother  an  under- 
standing of  the  losing  fight. 

"Oh,  mother,"  he  said,  "I  am  a  man.  I've  got  men's 
things  to  work  out  for  myself,  you  know.  I'll  come  out 
all  right  if  you'll  just  leave  me  alone  for  a  while." 

He  turned  toward  the  door  as  if  this  should  settle  the 
argument,  but  Mrs.  Vernon  ran  on  quickly  to  what  she 
wanted  to  say,  the  while  she  spoke  in  soft  pleading  words. 

"Leonard,  why  don't  you  take  up  your  sketching  again? 
You  know  how  clever  you  are  at  drawing  and  how  every- 
body back  home  thought  that  would  be  your  career.  Why 
don't  you  get  interested  in  it  and1  make  up  your  mind 
to  be  a  success  and  claim  your  own — honestly,  like  other 
men?"  She  put  her  arm  through  his  as  if  to  draw  him 
back  into  the  dining-room.  But  he  stood  stolidly  in  his 
tracks.  "You  know,  there  would  be  a  wonderful  chance 
for  you  in  working  on  a  newspaper,  or  in  an  architect's 
office.  I  would  be  so  happy,  dear,  if  you  would  do 
this.  I'd,"  she  turned  away  to  hide  tears  that  were  now 
unmindful  of  her  will — "I'd  almost  be  willing,"  she  added, 


28  THE    TAKER 

"to  endure  all  the  loneliness  if  I  knew  you  were  suc- 
ceeding." 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Vernon  called  up  Judge  Tal- 
bott  and  explained  how  anxious  Leonard  was  to  get  work 
along  a  draughtsman's  lines.  "He  would  be  so  good 
at  making  water  colours  of  buildings  and  things  like 
that,"  she  cried  over  the  'phone.  "Please  help  me,  my 
friend." 

In  fact,  Leonard  had  no  way  to  walk  out  of  the  situa- 
tion when,  on  the  following  day,  the  Judge  called  up 
Mrs.  Vernon  and  said  that  by  accident  he  had  been  able 
to  procure  just  such  a  position  for  Leonard  in  a  large 
art  glass  works  at  Hastings,  New  York. 

They  concluded  their  arrangements  quickly  enough. 

"I  think  I'll  go  back  to  Elyria  until  you  can  send 
for  me,"  Mrs.  Vernon  said  to  the  boy.  "You  must  write 
often,  though,  and  just  devote  yourself  to  making  a  ca- 
reer. I'm  so  happy." 

His  mother  seemed  to  carry  out  and  complete  all  the 
details  for  their  departure  quite  before  he  could  gather 
his  objections. 

But  though  he  was  going  off  to  a  position  of  his  moth- 
er's making,  he  determined  to  see  if  he  could  not  get  out 
of  the  rut  that  was  holding  him  and  really  shape  his  own 
career  when  he  was  once  free  from  home  ties. 

When  the  mother  stood  on  the  back  platform  of  the 
train  bound  for  Elyria  waving  good-bye  to  him,  she 
was  really  happy,  for  he  seemed  to  be  in  earnest  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life. 


CHAPTER  V 

TEN  days  after  Leonard  Vernon  had  forsaken  his 
mother  in  New  York  and  entered  into  the  routine 
of  his  new  position  at  the  great  Jacob  demons'  Art 
Glass  Works,  Hastings,  U.  S.  A.,  he  met  Jennie  dem- 
ons, his  employer's  daughter. 

Jennie  was  a  blonde  person,  a  tall  girl,  beautiful,  though 
a  little  too  stout,  whose  ignorance  kept  her  from  being 
a  bore  to  many  intelligent  men. 

The  moment  she  met  the  handsome  Leonard  she  told 
him  in  her  hesitating,  even  babyish,  way  that  she  had 
heard  so  much  about  him  from  her  father,  how  different 
he  was  from  the  other  men  in  Hastings  and'  how  artistic 
and  intelligent  were  his  tastes. 

And  it  was  only  three  months  after  this  meeting  that 
Leonard  wrote  to  his  mother  in  Elyria  the  following 
letter : 

"DEAR  MOTHER: 

"You  ask  me  to  come  out  to  Elyria  if  I'm  not  doing  well 
here.  Now,  I'm  doing  very  well  indeed.  I  believe  results 
will  begin  showing  pretty  soon  for  now  I  am  not  designing 
any  more  and  am  getting  more  into  the  business  end  of  it  with 
Mr.  demons. 

"It's  best  that  I  give  up  my  'artistic  career/  as  you  put  it, 
for  a  time.  I  am  really  getting  some  sense  about  life  and 
don't  want  you  to  keep  worrying  about  me.  The  world  does 
not  care  about  my  artistic  career.  That's  the  trouble  with 
most  people  anyway — they  think  more  about  the  world  and 
what  the  world  might  think  than  they  do  of  themselves.  I  am 

29 


30  THE    TAKER 

going  to  think  more  of  myself.    At  least  I  believe  I've  learnt 
to  do  that  much  since  I  left  home. 

"I  hate  to  go  over  the  whole  thing  again,  but  really,  mother, 
it's  best  that  I  left  home  after  all  because  I  don't  believe  I  was 
driving  very  straight  towards  being  a  real  man.  When  I  think 
back  and  realise  how  soft  and  weak  I  was  about  everything — 
it  scares  me.  I'm  reading  a  lot  now  and  just  last  week  fin- 
ished a  book  by  Montaigne. 

"The  people  up  here  are  pretty  commonplace;  but  strangely 
one  gets  into  their  mode  of  life  and  doesn't  feel  so  much  any 
of  the  outside  contrasts.  Which  is  just  as  well.  I'm  wearing 
Hastings  glasses  now,  over  my  eyes  and  mind,  and  I  have 
about  decided  to  include  my  heart  as  well. 

"Now  I'll  write  often  and  tell  you  all  that's  happening. 
Anyway,  let's  be  sensible.  You  think  it  over  and  you'll  see 
that  it's  only  those  people  in  the  world  who  measure  out  every- 
thing that  get  along  well.  My  health  is  better  too  since  I  cut 
out  the  artistic  stuff. 

"I'm  sorry  you're  so  lonesome.  Don't  you  think  you  ought 
to  go  out  more?  You  know  everybody  out  there. 

"With  love,  your  son, 

"LEONARD." 

Then  the  following  Saturday  Leonard  drove  up  on 
the  state  road  to  Albany.  He  seemed  determined  to 
get  along  in  this  affair  with  his  employer's  daughter. 

With  Jennie  by  his  side  they  followed  the  soft  dirt 
road,  his  own  strange  quietness  influencing  even  the  mind 
of  the  young  girl. 

On  one  side  of  them  was  an  unending  expanse  of  wav- 
ing green  fields  of  corn,  dotted  here  and  there  by  yel- 
lowish patches  of  wheat.  On  their  left  was  dense  shrub- 
bery and  high  trees.  Now  and  then  a  rift  opening 
through  showed  the  river  below  shining  in  the  strong 
sunlight  like  a  wide  ribbon  of  polished  glass. 


THE    TAKER  31 

Leonard  was  indeed  strangely  silent,  finding  satisfac- 
tion in  watching  to  see  if  Jennie  would  match  his  mood. 

Until  at  last  she  exclaimed :  "Oh,  Mr.  Vernon,  what  do 
you  say — let's  stop  on  the  side  of  the  road  and  go  down 
and  watch  the  river." 

He  looked  at  her  and  smiled  back,  "Why — I  think  it 
would  be  nice,  don't  you?'* 

Then  he  pointed  out  a  place  in  the  ditch-like  hollow 
along  the  road  and  she  jumped  out,  while  he  backed 
into  the  rut  and  tied  the  horse  to  a  tree.  Even  as  he 
laboured  with  the  animal  she  gazed  at  him  approvingly 
with  wide  admiring  eyes — eyes  that  seemed  to  hide  wordjs 
of  flattery,  that  were  forever  crying  for  life  at  her  hesi- 
tating lips. 

At  last  the  horse  was  quieted  and  the  buggy  settled 
into  a  patch  of  deep  weeds  and  grass  and  he  jumped  from 
the  seat  and  led  the  way,  Indian  fashion,  through  the 
trees.  Holding  his  hand  back  of  him  as  he  walked,  he 
said:  "I  guess  everything  will  be  safe  there,  Miss  dem- 
ons. Perhaps  you  had  better  keep  near  me." 

But  the  trees  were  close  together  in  places  and  so  after 
a  few  steps,  as  if  to  make  easier  the  steep  descent,  he 
casually  put  his  arm  around  her  waist. 

"We  can  walk  better  this  way,  I  think,"  he  remarked. 
When  they  had  gained  a  spot  that  glimpsed  the  river, 
they  stopped  to  enjoy  the  scenery  and  stillness  about 
them.  Leonard  felt  a  vague  inertia  in  the  quietness  of 
the  trees,  and  as  the  tall  girl  beside  him  stood  gazing 
silently,  also  apparently  happy,  he  gave  way  to  a  languid 
spell  of  dreaming.  Casting  his  eyes  down  on  to  the  river, 
he  saw  a  small  power  boat  lazily  slipping  through  the 
water,  leaving  after  it  a  flood  of  bubbles,  like  a  train  of 
surging  jewels. 


32  THE    TAKER 

But  Jennie  broke  in  on  his  silence. 

"I  think  there  is  a  good  place  to  sit  down  farther 
along,"  while  the  thought  disturbed  her  queerly  that  he 
was  more  silent  than  any  man  she  had  ever  known. 

"I  love  it  when  it  is  so  quiet  like  this,"  he  answered. 

Walking  on,  they  at  last  reached  a  stony  ledge  that 
hung  directly  out  over  the  river.  Here  they  stood  for 
some  time,  both  occupied  in  watching  another  boat  which, 
like  some  white  bug,  was  crawling  off  from  the  shining 
surface  into  two  projecting  arms  of  timber  on  the  shore 
opposite. 

It  moved  Leonard  to  remark  that  it  looked  like  some 
animal  entering  its  trap. 

"All  the  people  are  waiting  to  see  what  is  caught," 
he  added. 

"It  surely  is  delightful  here,"  she  breathed  deeply. 

Then  Leonard  looked  down  at  the  ground  and  said 
quickly : 

"Let's  rest  here.     You're  out  of  breath,  aren't  you?" 

"Oh,  not  so  very." 

Though  when  she  sat  down  and  threw  her  sweater  on 
the  ground  and  lay  back,  there  came  a  contented  sigh. 
Her  skirt  folded  itself  tightly  about  her  limbs,  and  with 
her  arms  thrown  back  all  the  developing  maturity  of  her 
form  became  apparent. 

Leonard  looked  down  on  her. 

"It  certainly  did  take  your  breath,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  answer  him  at  the  moment,  only  glanced 
down  into  the  river,  though  presently  she  exclaimed,  point- 
ing as  she  spoke: 

"Oh,  look  how  beautifully  the  mist  is  hanging  over  the 
water!" 

The  river,  caparisoned  by  a  rainbow  of  colours  made 


THE    TAKER  33 

by  the  sun  as  it  shot  down  through  the  mist,  was  rippling 
along  in  a  slowly  moving  current.  And  off  to  their 
right,  crowning  a  hill,  their  eyes  were  caught  by  the 
tops  of  a  cluster  of  tall,  haunting  maples,  swaying  deso- 
lately in  a  gentle  breeze. 

"Don't  you  just  love  this?"  she  murmured. 

"I  surely  do." 

With  her  hands  she  began  shutting  out  all  else  but 
the  dazzling  blue  vault  of  the  heavens,  after  the  man- 
ner of  a  landscape  artist  hunting  for  his  framed  bit  of 
perfection. 

"Didi  you  ever  try  this?"  she  suggested. 

To  do  as  she  bid,  he  too  lay  down  on  the  smooth  rocky 
surface  beside  her  and  rimmed  his  eyes  with  his  hands. 
However,  he  soon  gave  up  this  task  and  seemed  content 
to  gaze  moodily  about  him. 

For  a  long  time,  then,  they  were  silent,  both  dreamily 
staring  up  at  the  sky. 

Until  at  last  a  sigh  escaped  from  her. 

"Gee,  this  is  great.     I  just  love  it,"  she  murmured. 

When  there  came  no  answer,  she  said: 

"Don't  you  think  so?" 

"Of  course  I  do,"  he  answeredj  lazily. 

Now  she  saw  that  his  gaze  was  again  lost  in  the  river 
below  them. 

"That's  the  way  everybody  goes  on — just  like  the  river 
down  there — on  and  on  and  never  able  to  change  the 
place  they're  going  to."  His  words  were  moody,  tinged 
by  dull  melancholy. 

Sensing  the  trend  of  his  thoughts  and  wishing  that  at 
this  moment  he  would  not  spoil  the  pleasing  quietness 
about  them,  she  replied  airily: 

"Oh,  let's  not  think  things  like  that  now,  Mr.  Vernon. 


34  THE    TAKER 

Let's  just  be  happy."  She  turned  away  from  him  and 
exclaimed  in  a  vague  way:  "Let's  just  imagine  we're  lost 
so  that  nobody  would  ever  find  us — just  away  from  the 
world." 

Leonard  looked  at  her,  aroused. 

"Why,  that's  just  what  I  don't  want  to  do.  That's 
just  what  I'm  never  going  to  do.  I'm  going  to  stay 
in  the  world." 

His  blue  eyes  flashed  as  he  spoke,  and  as  he  smiled  a 
little  she  appeared  to  feel  that  he  thought  she  was  not 
taking  him  seriously.  So  she  encouraged  him  to  go  on 
by  an  almost  reverent  gaze  on  him.  He  said,  after  some 
time,  while  he  tore  holes  in  the  sandy  soil  with  a  jagged 
piece  of  stone:  "Do  you  know,  Miss  demons,  my  mother 
never  thought  I  was  going  to  amount  to  anything?  She 
just  wanted  me  to  be  weak — be  an  artist  and  have  ideals. 
She  was  always  watching  me.  Why,  before  I  came  up 
here  to  work  for  your  father,  when  I'd  go  up  to  the  top 
floor  to  sketch  and  paint  I  always  knew  she'd  be  up 
there  in  about  five  minutes.  Why,  until  I  left  home  I 
never  had  a  chance  to  think  for  myself." 

As  he  talked  the  girl  was  pleased  immeasurably  by 
his  confidence,  though  somehow,  in  an  unexplainable  way, 
a  wonder  was  growing  in  her  heart  whether  he  was  laugh- 
ing at  her  for  taking  him  seriously. 

"You  know,"  he  went  on,  "sometimes  I  wish  I  could 
get  away  from  everybody — just  be  the  only  person  in 
the  world."  He  clenched  his  hands  tightly  as  he  worded 
the  thought.  "It's  pretty  hard  to  meet  any  one  who 
really  understands." 

Bashfully,  she  objected:  "Don't  you  think  I  under- 
stand?" 


THE    TAKER  35 

Smiling  back  at  her,  he  said  slowly,  as  he  studied  her: 
"Perhaps — you  do." 

Now  Leonard  lay  back  silently,  and  Jennie,  very  close 
to  his  side,  methodically  busied  herself  in  finishing  up  one 
of  the  holes  he  had  been  digging.  Then  she  too  stopped 
and  became  lost  in  a  day  dream ;  while  Leonard  was 
vaguely  thinking  how  he  should  make  his  next  move, 
his  mind  planning  stratagems  at  the  command  of  an 
impulse,  of  the  existence  of  which  he  was  hardly  aware. 

At  last  he  rolled  over  on  his  side  and  began  replacing 
the  yellow  sweater  under  her  loosened  hair.  But  he  was 
unable  to  accomplish  this  while  leaning  on  his  elbow  and 
so  took  away  the  sweater  altogether  and  instead  placed 
his  arm  under  her  shoulders. 

"Isn't  that  better?"  he  asked,  while  the  thought  shot 
through  him  that  her  lips  were  actually  inviting  him. 

Though  she  failed  to  answer,  after  some  time  he  re- 
laxed his  gaze  on  her  and  lay  back  quietly  with  his  eyes 
dreamy,  apparently  content  that  she  had  offered  no  pro- 
test to  this  casual  caress. 

For  some  minutes  then  there  was  this  quality  of  silence 
between  them.  Only  the  sharp  crowing  of  a  hawk  circling 
high  above  them  disturbed  the  silence. 

Suddenly  Leonard  jumped  to  his  feet  and  began  to 
walk  back  and  forth  with  long,  decisive  strides.  His  deep- 
ened breathing  told  her  that  some  troubling  force  had 
beset  him. 

"What's  the  matter,  dear?"  she  said'  uncertainly. 

A  nearly  unendurable  period  passed  before  he  sat  down 
rigidly  by  her  side. 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly.  "You  do  like  me — a  lit- 
tle?" she  questioned. 


36  THE    TAKER 

He  studied  her  quizzically,  in  an  unaroused  fashion. 
Until  she  repeated: 

''Don't  you?" 

A  shudder  passed  over  him,  a  paroxysm  that  made  him 
sigh  and  drew  his  shoulders  together.  When  he  looked 
up  she  saw  that  an  expression  had  settled  on  his  face 
which  was  strangely  changed  from  his  usual  gentleness. 

At  a  loss  for  words  to  break  his  strange  attitude,  she 
muttered : 

"Didn't  you  hear  me?" 

"You  said  something  about  my  liking  you,  I  think?" 

He  still  gazed  at  her  whimsically,  soon  startling  her 
by  bursting  into  a  clear,  unnatural  laugh. 

With  just  a  little  anger  she  exclaimed:  "Why,  what's 
the  matter?" 

And  now  he  got  up  again  and  began  to  walk  back  and 
forth.  It  was  some  minutes  before  he  turned  to  her 
and  said,  quite  seriously: 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  understand?" 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean?"  she  asked. 

Now  he  seemed  determined  to  point  out  his  views  and 
be  understood  by  her. 

"Well,  maybe  you  don't  understand.  But  things  like 
kissing  seem  so  unimportant.  You  know,  I've  thought  a 
lot  about  it,  too.  Just  because  a  man  likes  to  kiss  a 
girl  and  she  likes  to  have  him  do  it — is  no  sign  that  a 
man  ought  to  be  in  love  with  her.  Now,  is  it?"  He 
added:  "Then  a  man's  job  on  earth  is  too  important  for 
him  to  let  sentimental  things  like  that — rule  him." 

"Do  you  mean,"  she  cried,  trying  to  penetrate  his 
thoughts,  "that  a  man  and  a  girl  ought  to  go  on  making 
love  to  each  other — just  for  the  fun  of  it?  Why,  how 
queerly  you  talk." 


THE    TAKER  37 

He  came  back  at  her  directly,  saying:  "Of  course — 
why  not?" 

She  thought  about  it  seriously  for  some  time  while 
two  red  spots  mounted  high  on  her  already  coloured 
cheeks.  At  last  she  said: 

"Well,  no  man  that  is  a  man  will  go  on  making  love 
to  a  girl  or  want  to  make  love  to  a  girl — unless  he's — 
in  love  with  her.  Everybody  knows  that."  She  bit  her 
lips  until  they  showed  a  fine  red  line.  "And  if  he  is 
in  love  with  her,  why  then  he'd  want  to  marry  her.  And  if 
she  loves  him  enough  to  want  him  to  kiss  her" — she  looked 
deeply  into  his  eyes — "then  she'd  want  to  marry  him." 

She  waited  for  some  time  for  his  answer,  busying  her- 
self the  while,  to  better  show  her  control  and  lessening 
concern,  by  dusting  her  face  and  throat  with  a  chamois 
drawn  from  a  pocket  in  her  sweater. 

But  Leonard  appeared  amused  now  that  she  had  be- 
come so  serious,  though  from  the  way  he  looked  ahead 
of  him,  and  now  and  again  took  a  deep  breath,  she  could 
tell  that  some  thought  was  troubling  him.  At  last  he 
said  slowly: 

"I  knew  you'd  talk  like  that." 

Then  he  went  on:  "Well,  I'll  not  change  my  views, 
anyway.  I  like  to  kiss,  and  I  guess  you  do,  too.  That's 
the  way  we're  built.  I  can't  see  the  use  of  lying  to  our- 
selves. I  think  if  it  were  wrong  for  us  to  be  like  that, 
then  we  should  have  been  made  different  from  the  start. 
At  least,  when  it  comes  to  marrying  somebody,  why  then 
it  certainly  is  different.  That's  one  thing  I'm  not  going 
to  fool  myself  about." 

While  she  listened  he  continued  slowly,  wonderingly, 
wording  his  thoughts  as  if  they  were  the  result  of  great 
deliberation. 


38  THE    TAKER 

"It's  just  this:  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  be  a  suc- 
cess, some  time.  Maybe  I've  thought  more  about  it  than 
most  men  of  my  age.  Maybe  it's  that  I've  learned  a 
good  deal  just  watching.  Anyway,  I'm  not  going  to 
fool  myself  the  way  everybody  else  does."  He  paused 
for  a  moment.  "You  know,  I  don't  think  that  an  artist 
can  have  love  affairs  and  feel  deeply  about  them,  like 
other  people.  They  don't  get  over  them  so  quick — and 
they're  hurt  more,  because  they  feel  more.  Then  they've 
got  another  business  than  just  getting  married,  like  other 
people,  and  they've  got  to  guard  their  business  so  that 
their  power  of — expression  won't  suffer."  He  looked 
up  at  her.  "Do  you  see  what  I  mean?  It's  just  that 
getting  married  has  nothing  in  the  world  to  do  with  kiss- 
ing or  making  love.  They  don't  belong  to  the  same 
family."  He  added:  "Anyway,  it  might  be  all  right  for 
ordinary  men,  but  not  for  artists  like  myself." 

"You  mean,"  she  interrupted,  her  face  paling  with 
growing  anger,  "you  mean  that  you  think  it's  all  right 
to  be — to  make  love  with  somebody — without  really  lov- 
ing them  at  all?" 

He  looked  at  her  composedly. 

"Why,  of  course,  if  it's  somebody  you  like  having  do 
it." 

Suddenly  she  got  up  and  ignoring  her  crumpled  linen 
skirt,  reached  down  and  took  her  sweater  and  walked 
quickly  away.  As  she  went  she  threw  over  her  shoulder : 

"If  you  want,  you  can  take  me  home." 

This  was  unexpected,  but  somehow  it  seemed  far  bet- 
ter to  have  her  angered,  which  showed  how  she  cared 
for  him,  than  to  give  her  any  understanding  that  he 
had  been  playing  or  was  sorry.  "It's  only  because  I'm 
that  way  with  her  that  she  cares,"  he  told  himself. 


THE    TAKER  39 

So  he  meekly  followed  her  up  the  hill  and  through  the 
trees  and  they  were  home  in  less  than  an  hour. 

When  they  gained  the  iron  fence  of  the  demons  place, 
Jennie  jumped  out  without  a  word  to  him,  just  holding 
herself  rigid  as  she  opened  the  gate  and  walked  up  the 
walk  to  the  porch. 

Leonard  did  not  get  out  after  her,  but  drove  up  the 
street  toward  his  boarding  place,  queerly  pleased.  A 
wild!  exultation  beat  in  his  heart.  As  he  walked  up  the 
green  carpeted  steps  to  his  rooms,  his  mind  throbbed 
with-  the  undertsanding  that  now  he  had  made  a  final 
settlement  with  himself.  He  would  marry  Jennie  dem- 
ons, the  daughter  of  his  employer.  She  was  rich,  in 
love  with  him  and  would  follow  his  slightest  nod.  He 
could  control  her  to  the  slightest  degree.  It  would  be 
the  keystone  of  his  career. 

When  he  entered  his  room  Leonard  took  off  his  hat 
and  coat  hurriedly  and  threw  them  on  the  bed,  then  ran 
upstairs  to  the  attic  space  he  had  rented  and  fitted  up  as 
a  work  shop.  Also,  as  was  his  systematic  practice,  he 
put  on  a  very  faded  velvet  jacket  that  he  used,  took  off 
his  low  oxford  shoes  and  put  on  a  pair  of  half  slippers. 
Then,  as  if  he  had  completed  some  preliminary  task,  he 
began  to  pace  the  floor.  One  thought  after  another 
raced  through  his  mind.  Now  he  could  have  some  chance 
in  life.  No  more  sentiment.  He  would  marry  this  rich 
girl,  much  richer  than  he  ever  would  have  been — out  of 
painting — a  girl  who  was  just  satisfied  to  have  an  intel- 
ligent, handsome  artist  for  her  husband.  He  was  tired 
of  being  poor,  anyway.  He  would  have  a  great,  big 
home  and  a  lot  of  servants  and  all  over  the  place  would 
be  hung  Monets,  Renoirs,  Greuzes,  Manets,  like  at  the 
Fowler  Gallery  up  on  Fifth  Avenue.  And  his  favourite  of 


40  THE    TAKER 

all — Zier's  "La  Sieste,"  hand-tinted,  so  that  it  would  be 
elegant  enough  to  hang  with  the  rest.  Yes,  and  his  own 
work,  too.  For  then  he  would  paint  at  his  leisure;  he 
would  invent  a  new  school  perhaps,  a  combination  of 
Renoir's  mystic  impressionism  with  the  bolder  stroking 
of  Cezanne.  But  he  thought,  too — this  last  idea  might 
be  qualified  a  little.  Perhaps  it  would,  be  better  to  let 
the  others  paint  for  him.  At  least  a  different  future  than 
would  happen  if  he  waited  until  his  art  brought  results. 

His  meditations  punctuated  now  and  then  by  deep 
inhalations  from  his  cigarette,  Leonard  pondered  over 
what  had  kept  him  so  blind  all  the  past  years.  Settling 
himself  in  a  large  rocker  in  front  of  the  slanting  oval 
mirror  that  he  used  as  a  reflector,  he  contentedly  re- 
garded himself,  while  in  his  mind  paraded  all  the  possi- 
bilities of  a  well-managed  future.  If  only  he  kept  con- 
trol of  himself  as  he  had — for  instance — this  afternoon. 
Visions  came  to  him  of  how  he  would  alight  from  his 
luxurious  motor  car,  in  front  of  the  great  hotels  in  New 
York ;  how  at  night  he  would  step  out  in  his  tight-fitting 
evening  clothes  in  front  of  the  lighted  doorways  of  the 
theatres.  He  could  almost  see  his  rich  wife  in  a  few 
years.  She  would  look  a  little  older  than  he  did,  and  per- 
haps her  stoutness  would  grow,  too.  But  she  would  look 
up  at  him  with  admiring  eyes,  and  he  would  know  all  the 
time  how  fascinating  she  thought  him  and  how,  rather 
than  lose  him,  she  would  give  in  to  every  one  of  his 
desires  and  whims.  Yes,  this  was  the  only  way  an  artist 
should  live !  After  that  could  come  the  love  affairs. 

For  more  than  an  hour  Leonard  Vernon  sat  thinking 
in  this  fashion,  at  last  crying  out  as  he  studied  his  mir- 
rored reflection: 

"Yes,  you  bet  I'm  going  to  get  along.     I'm  going  to 


THE    TAKER  41 

be  rich  and  successful."  It  was  as  if  some  antagonist 
were  viewing  him.  "Wait,  you'll  see — you  will." 

He  thought  on,  his  lips  compressed,  his  hands  clenched, 
how  much  better  things  had  proved  themselves  now  sim- 
ply because  he  had  decided  to  be  practical.  Though, 
too,  if  he  were  to  get  out  into  the  world  of  men,  he  must 
equip  himself  well,  read  up  on  French  history  and  the 
fall  of  the  different  nations.  Then  he  must  read  the 
Russian  writers  people  were  talking  about. 

Leonard  remembered  that  before  he  had  left  Elyria 
he  had  been  rather  delicate,  a  fact  which  had  worried 
his  mother  so  terribly.  But  now  he  was  the  possessor 
of  a  fairly  well-proportioned  frame,  considering  his  six 
feet  of  height.  At  least,  his  former  frailty  had  only 
been  an  expression  of  weakness  which  had  come  because 
of  his  lack  of  aggressiveness  toward  life  and  people.  In- 
deed, he  had  changed,  he  saw. 

He  really  had  always  pitiedj  himself  too  much.  And 
tried  to  emphasise  this  weakness  in  the  presence  of  others. 
People  seemed  to  feel  so  sorry  and  then  would  give  in  so 
easily.  But  that  was  the  way  women  were  and  the  reason 
for  their  continual  success.  When  they  wanted  anything, 
they  acted  frail  and  every  one  was  anxious  to  give  in  to 
them. 

No  more  of  all  that.  He  would  win  now  because  he 
was  strong.  The  other  could  never  work  out  in  the  long 
run,  anyway.  He  would  use  the  weak  ones,  trample  over 
their  bending  bodies — up  the  ladder  to  success. 

Leonard's  inner  being  churned  itself  into  a  state  of 
tempest.  As  he  sat  rocking  back  and  forth,  a  powerful 
and  tumultuous  yearning  for  great  things  welled  up 
in  him.  A  demand  for  conquering  harmonies  filtered 
through  his  young  mind's  turmoil.  He  was  going  to  win. 


42  THE    TAKER 

He  would  climb  his  porphyry-runged  Jacob's  ladder  to 
the  heights. 

At  the  moment,  it  would  have  taken  the  tremendous 
cacaphonies  of  "Tristan"  to  symphonise  with  the  over- 
powering rhythm  of  his  youthful  fancies.  All  the  inglo- 
rious journeys  of  a  score  or  more  of  world-famous  artists 
flashed  across  his  clamouring  mind.  A  life  of  adventure — 
that  was  it.  And  no  bowing  of  his  head  to  pick  his  way 
along  some  unhallowed  labyrinth  of  the  commonplace. 

Had  he  not  read  the  story  of  Chopin,  of  Napoleon, 
with  envy?  They  had  lived.  At  fifteen,  with  aching  heart, 
he  remembered  how  he  had  read  Emma  Bovary's  miser- 
able tale.  Yes,  even  then,  the  seed  of  a  strength  was  in 
him.  Had  he  not  ended  up  with  a  feeling  that  Emma 
was  a  fool  to  be  so  sentimental,  and  that  the  man  could 
not  be  blamed? 

So  it  was  that  an  invisible  audience  applauded  Leonard 
Vernon  as  the  torrent  of  rebellion  flooded  his  soul.  He 
would  get  on,  with  envy  as  the  only  accompaniment. 
Others  could  reverence,  if  they  would,  men  who  mar- 
tyred themselves  for  love. 

Sitting  in  front  of  the  oval  mirror,  Leonard's  mind 
then  filled  with  more  quieting  and  satisfying  pictures; 
a  composite  of  all  he  had  ever  read  or  dreamed,  strangely 
interwoven,  like  the  scenes  on  the  library  tapestry  down- 
stairs at  the  demons'.  Suddenly  he  was  taking  a  winged 
flight  to  the  exotic  colouring  of  harems,  where  soft-armed 
Bayaderers  were  caressing  handsome  Sultans  with  love- 
drugged  senses ;  to  marble  mansions  where  swarthy 
Greeks,  with  their  fine  handsome  bodies,  were  lost  in 
Bacchanalian  adventures.  Without  detail  or  structure, 
his  fancies  ran  into  even  more  idyllic  staging — mountain 
scenes,  and  shady  lovers'  lanes,  dark  cypress  glens,  where 


THE    TAKER  43 

•whispered  harmonies  came  from  swishing  waterfalls  and 
nickering  goats  ...  a  vague,  mysterious  fantasm — 
to  which  he  unresistingly  lent  himself  ...  a  conglomer- 
ate essence  of  that  unaccountable  quality  in  nature  which 
consorts  with  the  fancies  of  an  untrammelled  youth  con- 
templating a  serious  human  relationship  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life. 

He  became  more  aware  of  his  physical  self. 

Turning  his  head  until  he  saw  the  enticing  oval  of  his 
face  in  its  frame  of  soft,  dark  brown  hair,  he  surveyed 
himself  coldly,  much  as  if  he  were  taking  an  inventory  of 
his  assets  for  the  future.  He  set  his  jaw  and  half  closed 
his  eyes  until  they  became  dreamy,  interesting  .  .  .  after 
the  manner  in  which  a  woman  with  the  portrait  of  her 
lover  in  her  heart  admires  herself  before  retiring. 

And  all  the  time  a  picture  limned  itself  at  the  back  of 
his  mind.  It  was  that  of  Jennie  waiting  for  him  to  come 
back  to  her.  He  could  hardly  keep  from  smiling  as  he 
thought  about  it.  How  interesting  it  would  be  to  keep 
her  waiting  until  she  was  so  eager  for  him,  and  so  afraid 
of  losing  him,  that  she  would  even  help  to  make  his 
conquest  sweeter. 

Also  he  told  himself  that  anxious  waiting  on  her  part 
would  make  the  future  between  them  all  the  more  sub- 
stantial. 

.  .  .  While  Jennie  was  in  a  different  state  of  mind, 
indeed.  Waiting  until  Leonard  had  disappeared,  she 
came  down  from  the  porch  and  walked  through  the  iron 
gate  out  into  the  street  again.  The  hot  sun  beat  down 
and  wearied  her  and  she  walked  slowly,  her  hat  in  her 
hand,  her  feet  dragging.  She  was  sick  at  heart,  un- 
happy and  angered,  as  one  is  who  has  been  slapped  in 


44  THE    TAKER 

the  face  in  the  dark  by  some  unknown  adversary,  or  sud- 
denly been  disappointed  after  some  long  and  heart-break- 
ing wait.  She  had  been  hurt  somewhere  inside  and  had 
a  distressing  feeling  that  the  wound  would  never  heal  as 
long  as  she  lived. 

She  was  a  block  or  more  djown  the  street,  on  the  point 
of  returning  home,  when  she  hesitated,  thinking  what  she 
would  tell  her  father,  who,  red-faced  and  nervous  from 
the  heat,  would  be  awaiting  her  for  luncheon.  Of  course, 
she  thought,  she  might  pretend  that  nothing  had  hap- 
pened. But  something  had  happened. 

The  man — she  loved 

The  thought  was  more  than  she  could  bear.  She 
could  not  confront  him  with  the  calamity  that  had  be- 
fallen her  still  fresh  in  her  mind1. 

So  she  turned  and  walked  up  the  street  again,  feeling 
a  bit  better  with  the  knowledge  that  her  father  would 
not  search  her  face  and  question  her. 

Losing  all  sense  of  direction,  she  walked  until  she 
was  opposite  some  factories  on  a  street  that  led  directly 
down  to  the  Hudson.  Some  truckmen  were  unloading 
heavy  barrels  of  flour,  and  farther  on  three  men  were  lift- 
ing the  gang-plank  of  a  boat. 

She  thought  to  herself: 

"If  it  weren't  for  my  father,  I'd  get  on  some  boat  and 
disappear — forever.  It  would  be  a  good  lesson  for 
him.  Perhaps  he'd  never  again  play  with  a  woman  and 
make  her  suffer  so."  That  night  Jennie  sat  by  the 
window  in  her  room  until  the  sun  crept  up  red  and  mock- 
ing in  the  east.  Then  she  threw  herself,  aching  in  soul 
and  body,  on  to  the  bed  and  buried  her  face  in  the 
pillows. 


CHAPTER  VI 

next  day  Leonard  happened  to  pass  Jacob 
•*•  demons'  office  and  heard  the  president's  physi- 
cian say  to  the  heavy  red-faced  man: 

"It's  as  I  tell  you.  You  will  have  these  dizzy  spells, 
and  maybe  worse,  if  you  don't  take  better  care  of  your- 
self. Your  arteries  are  hardened." 

Leonard  carried  these  words  with  him  throughout  the 
day.  Somehow  they  had  a  significance  that  he  must  get 
at  and  interpret  in  a  way  that  applied  to  his  own  future. 

Sitting  in  front  of  his  pine  board,  he  kept  repeating 
over  and  over  the  physician's  words.  And  he  thought 
on,  much  further:  supposing  Jacob  demons  died  and  the 
rich  Jennie  suddenly  got  to  thinking  beyond  the  boundary 
of  Hastings;  supposing  he  married  Jennie  demons  and 
then  Jacob  demons  died 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  evening  he  could  hardly  wait  until 
he  should  see  Jennie  and  make  things  right.  A  dozen 
times  he  had  to  hold  back  from  writing  a  note  of  con- 
fession to  her  in  which  he  told  her  how  sorry  he  was 
that  they  had  quarrelled.  On  the  way  home  he  invested 
twelve  dollars  on  some  American  Beauty  roses  and  when 
he  had  gained  the  front  entrance  of  the  demons*  resi- 
dence his  heart  was  throbbing  and  creeping  up  in  his 
throat  in  a  manner  that  almost  choked  him. 

But  Jennie  met  him  at  the  front  door,  and  her  first 
words  brought  surcease  to  his  tortured  imagination. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  came,  I  don't  know  what  to  do," 

45 


46  THE    TAKER 

she  cried,  taking  his  hand.    "I  saw  you  from  the  window." 

They  went  into  the  front  room  and  for  some  time 
stood  together  looking  out  of  the  broad  bay  window  onto 
the  sloping  lawn.  They  stood  in  silence,  too,  like  lovers 
breathing  in  unison,  though  it  was  a  hard  fight  on  Leon- 
ard's part  to  keep  from  saying  something  to  her  that 
would  show  repentance  for  his  actions.  He  held  himself 
back,  however,  telling  himself  that  everything  was  in  his 
hands  again. 

The  only  compromising  thought  he  worded  was  that 
she  did  so  much  for  him  and  gave  him  renewed  desires 
in  the  battle  of  life.  "It's  a  fine  thing,"  he  said,  "to  know 
that  you've  got — a  good  friend." 

She  echoed  his  "friend"  anxiously  enough  and  looked 
searchingly  into  his  eyes. 

Leonard  saw  that  conquest  was  indeed  a  simple  pro- 
cedure. 

Some  ten  days  later  they  left  about  twilight  and  went 
up  the  State  Road  along  the  Hudson. 

The  idea  seemed  to  strike  Leonardl  casually  as  they 
were  passing  a  little  Chapel  House. 

That  evening  when  they  returned  home  to  Hastings, 
Jennie  was  the  secret  wife  of  one  Leonard  Vernon. 

Some  three  weeks  later  the  sclerosis  of  the  arteries 
gained  the  upper  hand  and  Jacob  demons  passed  away 
in  his  fifty-fourth  year. 

Jennie  was  a  lucky  holding,  too.  She  was  good  to 
him,  gave  him  the  house  of  her  father  to  live  in  and  a 
future  at  the  great  works  quite  beyond  any  flight  of 
imagination  he  had  ever  indulged  in.  But  after  a  few 
months,  when  early  married  life  had  lost  some  of  its 
stimulus,  he  was  conscious  of  her  defects  more  and  more. 
She  mouthed  a  lot  of  flattering  verbiage  which  drugged 


THE    TAKER  47 

his  intelligence;  she  petted  and  fed  him  well,  and  soon 
he  became  undiscerning  and  much  less  introspective. 

She  had  big  knuckles,  also,  that  kept  her  from  spelling 
with  any  style  when  she  accepted  invitations  from  the 
"nice"  people  in  Hastings,  and  the  Tarrytown  and  Sleepy 
Hollow  set,  ancH  her  servants  talked  a  great  deal  of  her 
ability  to  spend  long  hours  in  front  of  the  mirror;  she 
played  tennis  fairly  well,  which  for  a  time  served  to 
keep  away  the  fat  creeping  around  her  chin;  and  once 
in  a  while  she  would  even  become  interested  in  some 
popular  and  tawdry  love  story — or  become  immersed  in 
memorising  on  the  piano,  which  she  played  surprisingly 
well  for  the  sort  of  music  she  selected,  some  popular  tune 
with  a  syncopated  rhythm.  Mostly  she  just  waited  for 
Leonard  to  come  home  so  she  could  greet  him  at  the 
front  door  with  some  such  words  as : 

"Oo  bootiful  boy — oo's  so  tired!" 

To  offset  this,  Leonard  raised  a  firm-looking  moustache 
for  a  few  weeks  and  culled  one  verse  from  Milton's  "Para- 
dise Lost"  and  pasted  it  on  a  bit  of  cardboard  which  he 
kept  continuously  on  his  desk  in  the  mahogany  study  he 
had  set  off  the  dining-room. 

The  verse  read : 

"High  on  the  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 
Outshone  the  wealth  of  Omus  and  of  Ind, 
Or  when  the  gorgeous  East  with  richest  hand 
Showers  on  the  King  barbaric  pearl  and  gold, 
Satan  exalted  sat." 

The  last  line,  a  motto  that  signified  power  of  tHe  merci- 
less calibre,  he  found  to  be  a  sterile  prompter  of  his 
emotions. 


48  THE    TAKER 

Nearly  every  morning,  after  leaving  Jennie  at  the 
breakfast  table,  he  walked  into  his  study,  gazed  at  the 
heroic  verse  and  concentrated  on  its  stiffening  effect  for 
the  rest  of  the  day. 

All  in  all,  Leonard  soon  felt  himself  a  success. 

He  practically  was  owner  of  the  Clemens'  Art  Glass 
Works,  a  thing  which  he  saw  had  only  sprouted  because 
of  the  seeds  he  hadi  planted  in  his  nature. 

He  went  on  contentedly  for  many  months,  confident 
with  the  absolute  control  he  had  over  himself. 

Only  once  in  a  while,  mostly  at  about  twilight,  when 
the  shadows  would  streak  into  his  office,  did  Leonard  sit 
up  aghast  at  the  thought  that  he  was  becoming  a  busi- 
ness man — that,  with  blunted  sensibilities,  he  was  making 
money  and  accepting  nourishment  at  the  common  larder 
with  all  the  successful  Smiths  and  Joneses  of  the  business 
world. 

This  realisation  always  stifled  him,  especially  when  he 
remembered  how  a  few  years  before  he  had  decided  to  be 
one  of  the  select  and  never  to  become  tarnished  by  the 
commonplace. 

So  the  days  passed  for  him,  his  convictions  perpetually 
torn  asunder  by  continual  evidences  of  success  on  one 
side  and  on  the  other  by  perplexing  shifts  in  his  nature 
which  puzzled  him,  and  by  inner  conscious  adventures 
which  were  ruthless  in  their  regard  for  his  peace  of  mind. 
And  he  was  attacked  in  this  way,  mostly  any  place;  in 
a  business  meeting;  while  he  dictated  important  letters 
to  his  secretary ;  or  as  he  sat  at  the  dinner  table,  talking 
to  his  wife  or  the  guests  who  might  be  with  her. 

Then,  as  usual,  in  the  morning  it  would  be  different. 

Jennie  would   greet  him,  soft  and  lovely,  dressed  in 


THE    TAKER  49 

some  filmy,  clinging  material;  the  grapefruit  would  be 
mellow  and  luscious,  the  cream  thick,  the  toast  just  crisp 
enough; — and  her  kiss,  under  the  porte  cochere,  became 
a  perfumed  narcotic  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

Noticing  how  his  face  cleared,  Jennie  cultivated  a  habit 
now  of  getting  on  his  lap  when  he  came  home  sullen  and 
tired.  Hugging  and  petting  him,  she  whispered  how  won- 
derful he  was,  how  proud  she  was  of  her  man.  Nor 
was  it  a  dishonest  trick.  She  really  was  anxious  to  be 
of  use  to  him,  getting  real  pleasure  by  putting  a  little 
more  powder  on  his  face  as  he  finished  shaving,  or  in 
helping  him  with  his  collar  buttons  and  studs  or  changing 
his  tie  or  waistcoat  when  he  dressed  for  the  evening. 

She  had  the  maternal  feeling  for  him,  a  desire  that 
made  her  ever  want  to  be  his  servitor,  though  Leonard 
began  to  feel  more  and  more  gradually  that  her  capacity 
for  this  role  was  as  flaccid  as  her  fattening  muscles. 

So  matters  stood  when,  two  years  after  their  marirage, 
a  very  beautiful  little  daughter  came  to  them,  whom  Jen- 
nie persisted  in  naming  Maxine. 

This  christening  was  the  subject-matter  of  their  first 
real  argument.  Jennie  seemed  to  have  conceived  some 
tremendous  ideal  in  the  baby's  name.  As  Vernon  studied 
his  wife  during  this  soon  patched-up  difference,  the 
thought  came  to  him  that  the  name  "Maxine"  must  be 
symbolical  of  some  hidden  spirit  of  adventure  in  her 
heart.  Her  eyes  lit  up  and  she  became  quite  gay  when 
he  gave  in  to  her. 

Soon  after  that  she  confided  in  him  in  her  pouting, 
baby  manner  that  they  must  some  day  go  to  Paris  and 
have  a  real  spree,  visiting  the  restaurants  and  dance  halls, 
the  way  they  used  to  do  before  they  were  married. 

And  he  understood  better  the  subtlety  of  it. 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  T  this  time  there  worked  at  Leonard's  factory  a 
•**•  teamster,  John  Neil. 

Neil's  wage  on  account  of  an  inclination  for  liquor, 
which  made  his  reputation  an  unstable  one  with  the  dif- 
ferent foremen,  was  sixty-five  dollars  a  month.  At  least, 
it  was  not  large  enough,  and  had  not  been  for  some  years, 
to  keep  his  sixteen-year-old  daughter  Marcy  in  one  of 
Hastings*  grade  schools  much  beyond  her  twelfth  year. 
So  she  had  left  school  while  her  skirts  were  still  at  her 
knees,  Neil  deciding  that  his  motherless  home  needed  her 
more  than  she  needed  further  educating. 

But  it  did  not  make  so  much  difference  to  the  child, 
who  was  now  a  pretty  girl  indeed,  with  deep  red  brown 
hair  and  enticing  body,  just  a  shade  over-developed  for 
one  of  her  years. 

However,  what  she  lacked  in  book-learning,  she  made 
up  for  in  dreaming.  Marcy,  in  fact,  was  a  dream-woven 
child  of  nature.  She  matched  up  in  her  movements,  too, 
with  this  dream  constructed  life  of  hers.  Perhaps  she 
could  not  have  stood  her  father's  treatment  of  her  were 
she  actively  engaged  in  living  in  the  world  inhabited  by 
her  neighbours  on  the  densely  crowded  Third  Street. 

She  was  away  and  above  all  of  them. 

While  her  hands  were  washing  some  urchin's  scratched- 
up  face,  her  mind  was  careening  along  a  romance-paved 
highway;  while  her  little  feet  were  stopping  in  at  Mrs. 
Quinn's  next  door,  or  Mrs.  Pavey's  around  the  corner,  her 

50 


THE    TAKER  51 

heart  was  throbbing  with  vague  adventures  along  some 
air-castled  roadl 

Marcy  had  no  great  names  for  these  mirage-like  visions 
that  fluttered  and  flocked  endlessly  through  her  mind. 
Instead,  she  just  accepted  it  all  in  a  sort  of  an  ecstatic 
numbness,  the  door  of  her  mind  held  constantly  open  for 
it  with  an  eager  invitation  for  more. 

So  she  wandered  in  and!  out  of  her  days  with  this 
skein  of  emotional  fantasy  woven  around  her,  singing  a 
little  song  in  a  queer,  thin  pathetically  squeaky  voice,  a 
song  sung  so  often  by  her  that  it  had  become  a  part 
of  her,  just  as  her  arm  was  a  part  of  her.  It  was  the 
symbol  of  all  her  hopes  and  prayers  for  the  future — a 
fetish  that  would  charm  away  all  her  troubles. 

"I'd  rather  have  him  and  his  fifteen  a  week 
Than  be  some  old  millionaire's  doll, 
He's  the  best  thing  what  wuz,  and  I  love  him  becuz 
He's  my  pal,  he's  my  pal." 

When  she  was  with  Lester  Moore,  the  nineteen-year-old 
fellow  she  "went  with,"  and  he  told  her  he  thought  he 
would  marry  her,  she  only  argued  that  all  the  girls  mar- 
ried at  her  age  and  that  she  had  very  little  to  say  about 
the  matter.  In  fact,  every  one  told  her  she  was  lucky 
to  have  a  fellow  like  Lester,  who  was  one  of  the  best 
young  lead1  workers  in  Vernon's  factory. 

True,  there  was  within  her  at  times  a  feeling  that  she 
must  throw  her  arms  about  the  boy's  neck  and  make  him 
love  her,  more  as  an  accompaniment  to  yearning  for 
affection,  than  any  particular  desire  to  have  the  stolid 
Lester. 

She  really  did  not  care  for  the  lumbering  youth  who 
paid  so  little  attention  to  her.  Mostly  she  walked  and 


52  THE    TAKER 

talked  with  him,  conscious  at  all  times  of  an  unusual 
weariness,  lifted  only  when  he  left  her. 

In  fact,  she  was  like  a  ship  buffeted  by  the  elements ; 
on  the  one  sidte  by  the  harsh,  bloodless  words  of  her  toil- 
driven  father,  on  the  other  by  the  soft  meaningless  words 
of  the  man  who  would  marry  her. 

At  times,  as  she  wailed  out  her  thin,  cracked  little 
song,  there  sprung  into  the  back  of  her  mind  the  out- 
lines of  some  tall,  Apollo-like  lover  who  said  beautiful 
words  to  her  and  caressed  her  with  wonderful  gentle- 
ness. And  relief  only  came  by  imagining  Lester  Moore 
to  be  this  vaguely  outlined  wonderful  lover.  She  could 
tolerate  him  more  easily  that  way. 

But  often  her  only  real  comfort  came  from  running 
out  into  the  outskirts  of  Hastings  and  jumping  over  the 
fences  until  she  gained  a  certain  high  mound  in  the  rear 
of  the  Vernon  grounds  and  from  this  height,  which  was 
to  her  like  the  top  of  the  world,  yelling  so  that  all  the 
denizens  over  and  under  the  earth  might  hear:  "Hi-yi! 
hi-yi!"  She  would  perch  herself  strainedly  and  scream 
until  the  echoes  answered  her  from  the  parched  crimson 
palisades  across  the  river. 

And  then  she  would  run  back,  her  soul  temporarily 
purged  of  its  pent-up  yearnings,  her  feelings  fused  into 
a  common  chord  with  the  soft  air  and  gently  waving  trees. 
It  was  almost  as  if  she  had  held  communion  with  the 
forces  that  understood  her  and  awaited  her  coming. 

It  was  sad,  indeed,  that  all  this  should  be  spoiled  in 
the  evenings  when  Lester  called  after  his  day's  work. 
Everything  then  seemed  to  be  changed  into  a  sort  of  duty 
which  she  must  meet  by  smiling  silently  and  concealing 
any  word  that  might  give  a  clue  to  her  true  feelings. 
When  the  boy  roughly  caught  and  kissed  her  just  once, 


THE    TAKER  53 

then  stalked  away,  strangely,  as  he  often  did,  she  felt  like 
calling  after  him  and  saying:  "Why  do  you  kiss  me?  I 
don't  want  to  kiss  you."  She  would  always  pout  when 
she  did  this  and  hold  her  chin  up  and  shake  her  head  at 
his  imaginary  presence. 

One  evening  she  walked  into  the  country  and  back  with 
him.  She  was  looking  pretty,  indeed,  wearing  a  dark 
green  dress,  softened  by  numerous  washings,  which  showed 
off  the  gentle  rounding  of  her  hips  and  the  lines  of  her 
bosom,  in  a  tantalising  way.  As  they  came  up  the  cinder- 
walk  in  front  of  her  home  he  said:  "Say,  Marcy,  you 
know  I'm  making  two  dollars  and  eighty  cents  a  day 
now.  That's  more  than  your  father's  getting."  But  she 
did  not  look  up  so  proudly  as  he  imagined  she  would.  In- 
stead he  grabbed  her  arms,  saying:  "You're  the  funniest 
kid  I  know,  Marcy.  What's  the  matter  with  you?  Don't 
you  want  to  marry  me?" 

She  bowed  her  head  in  silence,  saying:  "Please  don't 
talk  like  that." 

They  loitered  at  the  steps  of  the  porch  for  a  long  time. 
Somehow,  the  boy  seemed  a  little  closer  to  her  than 
ever  before.  But  she  concealed  from  him  her  spirit  of 
surrender  and  at  the  door  he  stopped  her  and  said : 

"Now  this  is  the  last  time,  Marcy.  You've  just  got 
to  say  'Yes'  right  out,  and  not  keep  so  quiet  about  it 
when  I  ask  you.  You  know  you'll  never  get  another 
chance  like  this — even  if  you  are  so" — he  surveyed  her 
appraisingly — "so  darn  pretty."  Then  he  took  hold;  of 
her  rather  fiercely,  saying  with  his  breath  a  little  hotter 
to  her  cheeks:  "What  do  you  say?  Will  you  tell  him?" 

"All  right,"  she  said ;  "let's  go  in." 

They  found  her  father  in  the  dining-room.  He  was 
sitting  at  the  table,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth.  His  seamy 


54  THE    TAKER 

face,  wrinkled  like  the  reefed  canvas  of  a  sail,  was  dull 
and  hard  set.  He  looked  like  one  of  those  beggars  whose 
sharp,  deep  wrinkles  compelled  Callot  to  use  for  his 
etchings  the  hard  varnish  of  cabinet  makers. 

Lester  spoke  up  proudly  as  soon  as  he  entered: 

"The  girl's  given  in.    Ask  her  yourself." 

Neil's  face  lit  up  as  he  muttered:  "Well,  I  supposed 
I'd  have  to  lose  her  some  time.  But  she's  a  good  house- 
keeper, boy.  It'll  be  hard  to  get  along  without  her." 

"I  guess  we'll  get  married  in  a  couple  of  days,"  said 
the  boy,  glancing  around  the  room.  He  then  looked  at1 
Marcy  and  drawled :  "I  suppose  the  sooner  the  better,  eh, 
Marcy  ?" 

With  a  look  of  understanding  at  Marcy,  he  sat  down 
beside  Neil,  lighting  his  pipe  methodically,  and  drawing 
at  it  a  few  times,  rhythmically  accompanying  the  old 
man.  "I  hear  Vernon  is  going  to  get  rid  of  a  lot  of  men 
at  the  factory,"  he  went  on.  Marcy  saw  him  watch  the 
effect  of  his  words  on  her  father.  "Did  you  hear  any- 
thing about  it?" 

Neil  leaned  over.  "No,"  he  snarled,  and  added:  "Well, 
I  won't  be  one  of  'em." 

Moore  laughed  and  then  took  a  few  deep  puffs  at  his 
pipe.  "Why — I  believe  you  was  to  be.  I'm  not  sure. 
Anyway,  you'll  be  rid  of  Marcy,  and  won't  have  to  look 
after  her  any  more." 

And  now  Neil  stood  up,  his  face  white  through  the 
week-old  beard. 

"You  heard  them  say  I  was  going?"  he  repeated.  "By 
God " 

Lester  broke  in.  "Oh,  I  was  just  telling  Marcy  about 
it.  I  was  trying  to  make  her  see  that  if  you  lost  your 
job  it  was  another  reason  why  she  should  marry  me." 


THE    TAKER  55 

Neil  stood  still  for  a  moment,  pale  and  mad-eyeid, 
clutching  convulsively  at  Moore's  shoulder.  But  the  boy 
laughed  and  gently  pushed  him  off.  Then  picking  up  his 
cap  from  the  table,  with  his  eyes  on  Marcy,  he  said: 

"Good-bye,  Marcy;  I'll  stop  in  before  work  in  the 
morning." 

At  the  door  he  turned  and  said  to  Neil: 

"Now  don't  take  this  thing  so  hard.  You  know  I  don't 
care  for  the  boss  any  more  than  you  do.  I  know  all  his 
sneaky  ways  as  well  as  you  do.  So  what's  the  use  of  get- 
ting excited  about  it?" 

He  banged  the  door  after  him.  He  was  glad  to  get 
away. 

Marcy  ran  upstairs  after  Lester  had  left,  and  had  no 
sooner  reached  her  rafter-roofed  bedroom  than  she  threw 
herself  on  the  bed.  It  had  been  a  strain  for  her.  She 
even  pulled  a  cover  over  her  eyes  and  face  to  shut  out, 
for  a  moment,  all  thoughts  of  this  business-like  disposi- 
tion of  her. 

And  as  she  lay  there  she  thought : 

"I'm  going  to  get  away  from  here — I'm  going  to  get 
away  from  here."  Somehow  she  did  not  dare  to  word 
the  thought,  "I'm  going  to  get  married." 

Outstretched  on  the  bed,  Marcy  wondered  about  the 
many  things  that  were  going  to  happen  to  her,  won- 
dered if  she  were  pretty  as  Lester  had  said,  wondered 
if  she  would  ever  love  him,  or  if  she  would  meet  the  hand- 
some man  of  her  dreams  only  after  Lester  and  she  were 
married. 

But  it  was  hard  to  understand  all  this  right  now.  So 
she  merely  smiled,  sat  up  on  the  bed,  looked  across  into 
the  broken  mirror  on  the  bureau  opposite,  the  wooden 


56  THE    TAKER 

frame  of  which  was  bordered  by  hair-nets,  bits  of  ribbon 
and  two  Kodak  pictures  badly  framed,  and  said,  "Oh, 
well;  oh,  well,"  then  smiled  gently  to  herself  as  she  lay 
back  and  shut  her  eyes  that  she  might  dream  some  more. 

On  his  way  to  work  the  next  morning,  Lester  stopped 
at  the  gate.  Through  the  blinds  Marcy  saw  him  and 
ran  out  to  him  with  a  manner  so  glad  that  he  was  sur- 
prised. 

"Hello,  Marcy!"  he  said,  while  his  eyes  studied  her 
blue-ginghamed  figure.  "Let's  take  a  walk;  can  you?'* 
A  thought  was  in  his  mind  that  near  the  factory  grounds 
was  a  place  where  he  might  steal  a  kiss. 

Together  they  walked  in  silence  for  a  few  blocks  of 
cottage-lined  streets,  then  along  a  high  board  fence 
marked  with  various  painted  advertisements.  Here  he 
took  her  hand. 

"Well,  Marcy,  what'll  you  say  if  we  go  up  to  Squire 
Conley's  office  to-morrow?'* 

"All  right,  Lester,"  she  answered. 

And  then  the  boy  put  his  arms  about  her  and  held  her 
tight  for  an  interminable  time  and  kissed  her. 

He  held  her  so  long  that  it  seemed  she  must  tear  loose 
to  get  her  breath,  but  she  even  held  out  against  this 
escape,  telling  herself  that  she  must  give  in  to  him ;  that 
the  voluntary  right  for  rebellion  was  no  longer  hers.  Her 
only  solace  was  that  he  could  not  know  her  dreams  about 
the  future. 

They  were  back  at  the  gate  before  she  worded  the 
thought  that  was  troubling  her. 

"Lester,  does  everybody  get  married  like  this?  Don't 
they  love  a  long  time  first?  And  then  have  an  engage- 
ment and  everything,  after  the  man  asks  her?" 

He  laughed  and  drew  her  up  to  him. 


THE    TAKER  57 

"You're  my  girl,*5  he  said.  "We'll  get  married — 
to-morrow." 

And  not  until  Marcy  was  in  her  room  at  night  again, 
and  quiet  for  some  time,  did  she  think  about  her  coming 
marriage  or  picture  what  had  gone  on.  Walking  about, 
looking  at  herself  a  great  deal  in  the  milky  mirror,  fright- 
ened, pleased,  even  making  grotesque  faces  at  herself, 
she  kept  whispering: 

"I'm  going  to  be  married  to-morrow !" 

Her  cheeks  felt  hot,  as  if  they  were  burning  up.  She 
wanted  to  cry  and  laugh  at  once.  So  many  thoughts 
scurried  through  her  she  could  not  fix  one  of  them.  All 
of  which  ended  with  her  leaning  against  the  foot  of  the 
bed,  sobbing  for  no  reason  that  she  understood. 

That  night  Marcy  began  preparing  for  her  marriage. 
Hustling  from  one  drawer  to  another,  from  the  bureau 
to  an  old  battered  trunk  that  had  belonged  to  her  dead 
mother,  she  gathered  together  bits  of  ribbon,  a  little 
cap  she  had  worn  when  a  baby,  a  letter  she  had  once 
written  to  a  youth  she  met  at  a  picnic  and  then  bash- 
fully never  sent,  a  piece  of  hair-net  in  which  she  had 
invested  one  day  when  an  overwhelming  desire  had  en- 
compassed her  to  be  a  fine  lady.  And  as  she  gathered 
together  her  possessions  she  hummed  her  little  song. 

The  next  day,  with  her  father  and  a  friend  of  Lester's, 
she  walked  to  Squire  Conley's  office,  and  in  front  of  the 
much  initialled  wooden  railing  was  married  to  a  man  who 
had  asked  her  to  marry  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

T  EONARD  VERNON  easily  and  quite  unconsciously 
•*—•  tolerated  the  monotonous  routine  of  his  married  life. 
His  desire  for  something  else — some  new  field  to  till — • 
something  to  put  more  of  an  edge  on  his  desires — became 
so  inextricably  mingled  with  his  wish  for  a  machine  that 
perpetually  flattered  him  that  months  piled  on  months 
before  he  was  confronted  by  a  personal  self-accounting, 
or  by  moments  that  held  him  rigid  with  fears  about  his 
future.  And  then  the  old  heart-rending  doubts  would 
battle  their  way  into  his  mind  just  as  they  had  done  when 
he  was  in  his  teens. 

What  was  the  use  of  making  money,  he  would  think, 
as  he  made  out  the  deposit  slips  for  check  after  check, 
if  money  meant  nothing  toward  attaining  one's  ideal  life, 
and  only  reduced  you  to  the  commonplace?  What  was 
the  use  of  working  before  the  ideal  was  obtained,  since 
only  what  came  after  could  bring  any  happiness? 

Often  he  repeated  to  himself: 

"Yes,  God  help  me,  I'm  going  to  get  what  I  want." 

He  said  "God"  a  good  deal  and  without  thought. 

At  these  times  he  had  a  vague  feeling  that  "God"  was 
the  only  one  who  understood  him — and  so  agreed  with 
him.  Also,  it  was  a  solacing  thing  to  know  that  The 
Omnipotent  Being  up  above  was  in  communion  with  him 
at  all  times  and  in  sympathy  with  his  ambitions. 

During  the  day  all  this  would  work  itself  out  somehow, 
and  in  his  favour,  too.  He  could  easily  imagine  him- 

68 


THE    TAKER  59 

self  very  successful  because  of  the  justice  of  it.  But  at 
night  it  was  not  so  easy.  Alone  in  his  room,  when  he 
could  see  himself  in  a  truer  light  and  was  away  from 
Jennie,  who  acknowledged  him  so  readily  as  her  superior, 
he  would  become  stiff  with  doubt  and  fear.  These  mo- 
ments always  ended  up  by  his  becoming  even  more  defiant, 
reasoning  that  the  daughter  of  Jacob  demons  was 
rightfully  being  used  as  one  of  his  stepping  stones. 

But  this  mood  of  self-analysing  would  attack  him  again 
and  again,  until  the  question  gradually  crept  into  his 
consciousness  as  to  what  really  was  the  thing  he  most 
wanted.  He  hardly  dared  to  acknowledge  to  himself  that 
the  only  strong  desire  he  possibly  could  make  out  of  his 
yearnings,  even  in  the  faintest  way,  was  that  it  had  fo 
do  with  some  woman  who  would  understand  him  and  sym- 
pathise with  him  in  his  struggle  with  life.  He  thought 
that  merely  the  physical  could  never  fully  satisfy  his 
artist's  soul. 

Until  came  Mabel  Gillette,  a  stenographer,  sent  up  by 
an  agency  in  New  York ;  a  rather  weary  person  of  twenty- 
eight  with  hay-like  hair  and  dim,  watery  eyes. 

Only  a  couple  of  weeks  after  her  arrival,  sympatheti- 
cally observing  Leonard's  restlessness,  she  said: 

"You  know,  you  are  wasting  your  time,  Mr.  Vernon. 
There  are  so  many  big  things  in  the  world  that  we  should 
think  about.  So  many  things  that  lift  us  above  the 
commonplace,  that  should  give  us  the  right  inspiration 
for  living.  Oh,  Mr.  Vernon,  when  I  see  you  sitting  here 
at  your  desk  and  looking  so  tired  over  all  these  mean- 
ingless figures,  I  can't  help  feeling  it  is  my  duty  to  urge 
you  to  fight  harder  for  the  things  that  a  man  of  your 
intelligence  deserves." 

That  night  Leonard  said  to  his  wife,  when  she  hung 


60  THE    TAKER 

over  the  back  of  his  chair  as  they  sat  in  the  stuccoed 
dining-room  now  stained  to  resemble  mahogany: 

"Good  God,  Jen,  leave  me  alone!  Don't  you  suppose 
I  ever  get  sick  of  you  always  whining  around  me;  and 
wanting  to  do  something  for  me?  Let  me  help  myself 
once  in  a  while.  I'm  getting  too  damned  content — like 
an  old  man.  And  here  I'm  young  yet.  Just  let  me  do 
something  for  myself  once  in  a  while." 

The  following  day  Miss  Gillette  was  urged  to  tell  him 
more. 

"Well,  it's  that  you  are  living  in  a  futile  way,  Mr. 
Vernon,"  she  answered.  "I've  had  to  work  it  out  for 
myself,  too.  You  are  being  engrossed  in  petty,  material 
things,  the  physical  in  life — that  so  easily  is  used  up  and 
gives  you  no  return  whatever.  You  are  too  well  satis- 
fied, I  guess.  How  old  are  you?" 

She  went  on  for  more  than  an  hour,  at  the  end  of 
which  Leonard  Vernon  sat  rigid  and  unhappy  in  his 
big  desk  chair.  Suddenly,  and  in  the  old  way,  he  was  now 
filled  with  recollections.  As  he  listened  to  the  woman 
it  really  seemed  that  she  was  diagnosing  his  case  even 
better  than  she  knew.  He  saw  now  that,  quite  unknow- 
ingly, for  which  he  could  not  blame  himself,  he  had  slipped 
into  a  period  of  buttery  complacence — for  all  his  efforts 
at  telling  himself  that  his  material  search  was  only  a 
temporary  affair. 

Suddenly  he  wondered  if  it  were  too  late. 

On  his  way  home  from  the  factory  that  night  Leonard's 
perplexity  was  not  diminished,  either.  With  lips  pursed 
together,  then  thinning  out  into  two  tense  sheaves  of 
determination,  he  sat  on  the  soft  cushions.  Among  other 
things  he  could  not  help  wondering  why  he  had  so  easily 
allowed  this  woman  to  humble  him;  though  he  solaced 


THE    TAKER  61 

himself  with  the  thought  that  the  one  who  had  told  him 
all  of  this  was  surely  an  unusual  woman.  Even  if  she 
were  so  ugly  to  look  at.  She  had  not  flattered  him,  either, 
but  he  apologised  to  himself  for  her  by  realising  that  her 
interest  in  him  had  made  her  tactless. 

At  least,  it  surely  was  the  truth  that  he  had  steeped 
himself  in  a  world  of  flesh  and  cheap  values,  quite  all  his 
life  completely  ignoring  every  endowment  given  him  by 
his  earlier  environment  and  native  intelligence. 

As  he  passed  in  through  the  library  he  saw,  beckoning 
to  him,  the  beautifully  embossed  leather  copies  of  Ver- 
laine,  Pater,  Baudelaire,  Rossetti,  Browning,  that  he  had 
bought  the  first  few  weeks  of  their  marriage.  And  to 
Jennie  he  mentioned,  after  her  caress  had  eased  off  some- 
what, that  they  ought  to  spend  an  evening  reading  some 
of  them.  "We've  neglected  decent  reading  for  an  awful 
long  time,  Jen,"  he  said. 

Jennie's  remark  smote  him  to  the  heart. 

"Oh,  you  only  think  you're  interested  in  them!"  she 
exclaimed. 

Leonard  gave  her  one  shrivelling  glance  and  then  went 
into  his  study. 

She  ran  after  him,  full  of  perplexity,  and  threw  her 
arms  about  his  shoulders. 

"Why,  Leonard,  boy,  what's  happened?  You've  never 
acted  this  way  with  me.  Oh,  Lennie,  dear,  what  have  I 
done?" 

But  her  insistence  was  met  only  by  a  strange  attitude 
of  reflection. 

"Just  leave  me  alone,  Jennie,"  he  begged.  "Just  leave 
me  alone.  That's  all  I  ask.  There  is  a  lot  I  want  to 
think  about." 

When  he  walked  over  to  the  fire  and  sat  down  in  the 


62  THE    TAKER 

big  chair  in  front  of  it,  she  dropped  on  the  floor  at  his 
feet  and  put  her  bare  white  arms  around  his  knees. 

But  he  tore  himself  loose  from  her  and  went  upstairs 
to  his  room. 

And  neither  of  them  answered  the  servant's  call  for 
dinner. 

Leonard  paced  the  floor  in  his  room,  assailed  and  ter- 
rified by  his  thoughts,  while  Jennie,  bewildered  and 
anxious,  lay  beside  the  chair  in  his  study  and  sobbed 
till  long  past  midnight.  Then  with  throbs  jerking  at  her 
heart,  she  stole  out  into  the  library  and  up  the  stairs 
to  where  Maxine  lay  sleeping.  Drawing  a  rocker  to  the 
side  of  the  little  bed,  she  pulled  herself  back  and  forth, 
rocking  rhythmically  with  the  agonising  thoughts  that 
flew  from  her  troubled  mind  to  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  IX 

A/TABEL    GILLETTE    never   ceased    talking  of   art 
•*•   •*•    and  life  to  Leonard  Vernon. 

Many  times  in  the  twilight  of  his  office  they  stood  look- 
ing out  of  the  window  together  onto  the  dark  expanse 
of  the  Hudson.  A  strange  period  of  thought  com- 
munion seemed  to  encompass  them  whenever  they  watched 
the  river  together  in  this  fashion.  Each  little  spectre 
of  a  boat  as  it  floated  by  seemed  a  silent  carrier  of 
symbols  of  understanding. 

After  closing  hour,  one  evening,  during  the  earlier 
part  of  this  period  Vernon  became  better  acquainted  with 
Mabel's  life  story,  a  story  that  was  replete  with  poignant 
mishap,  always  tinted  by  a  cheerful  philosophy  and  a 
blind  belief  in  the  future. 

"When  father  died  and  they  took  me  out  of  school,  I 
was  such  a  funny  little  thing,  Mr.  Vernon,"  she  said. 
"They  all  stood  around  the  house  grief-stricken,  wonder- 
ing what  to  do  about  it,  and  when  I  announced  that  I 
would  work  and  support  them  they  seemed  even  more 
troubled,  especially  my  mother  and  a  little  sister.  My 
aunt,  who  came  to  us  at  that  time,  didn't  count,  as  I 
hated  her.  She  always  made  fun  of  me  and  said  I  was 
always  cheerful  because  I  didn't  have  any  better  sense." 
She  halted  a  moment  as  Vernon  watched  her.  Then  she 
added  lightly,  her  eyes  smiling  reminiscently,  "  'T  would 
have  done  little  good  to  explain  my  philosophy  and  be- 
liefs to  her.  She  only  saw  things  through  nearsighted 
glasses.'* 

63 


64  THE    TAKER 

Vernon  grew  fond  of  her;  not  the  kind  of  fondness 
that  bespeaks  a  caress  or  a  kiss  but  a  feeling  that  humbled 
him,  even  humiliated  him,  in  the  presence  of  this  mentor 
of  ambition. 

And  Mabel  Gillette  suddenly  came  into  her  own  time 
of  emotional  unrest.  One  night,  alone  in  her  boarding 
house  bedroom,  she  found  herself  wording  for  the  first 
time  the  little  postponed  prayer  of  hope  and  soul-yearn- 
ing that  for  so  many  years  had  been  a  companion  piece 
to  her  spirit. 

She  said  to  herself  over  and  over  again,  as  she  knelt 
by  the  side  of  her  bed  with  bowed  head  and  closed  eyes: 
"Oh,  Charitable  Giver  of  Peace!  Please,  please  watch 
over  me  now  and  be  good  to  me.  Please,  please  make  him 
love  me!  This  is  my  only  chance.  Make  me  good  and 
noble  so  that  I  can  give  happiness  to  him.  Please,  please, 
make  him  know  what  I  can  do  for  him  and  how  I  can 
help  him  in  his  work." 

Strangely,  it  was  nearly  a  duplicate  of  the  prayer  that 
the  love-crucified  Jennie  repeated  to  herself  night  and 
day  throughout  these  months,  a  prayer  that  seared  her 
with  the  knowledge  that  her  husband,  for  some  unaccount- 
able reason,  was  tiring  of  her. 

These  were  trying  days  for  Jennie.  For  a  time  she 
made  an  effort  to  hold  Vernon  by  accomplishing  an 
even  greater  physical  attractiveness — the  only  fortress 
of  protection  her  love  had.  But  days  of  exhausting  diet 
and  camphor  massaging  only  seemed  to  tempt  him  to  fur- 
ther vindictiveness  in  his  manner. 

One  evening  when  he  came  in  to  find  her  rolling  on 
the  floor  of  her  boudoir,  after  a  receipt  she  had  obtained 
through  the  medium  of  the  Ladies'  Home  Journal,  her 
only  reward  was  a  temper-ridden  exclamation :  "For  God's 


THE    TAKER  65 

sake,   Jennie,   don't   make   a   fool  of   yourself — it's   dis- 
gusting." 

.  .  .  Mabel  Gillette  on  the  other  hand  began  to  thrive. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  a  man  was  paying  some 
attention  to  her.  She  became  filled  with  a  greater  cour- 
age. She  became  the  possessor  of  a  virility  that  had  as 
much  effect  upon  her  mental  state  as  it  had  upon  her 
circulation. 

Too,  an  unconscious  note  of  shrewdness  forced  itself 
upon  her  intelligence.  She  found  that,  whenever  she 
exercised  her  fierce  proprietorship  over  Vernon's  neglected 
ambitions,  he  gave  in  even  more  readily. 

So  it  was  not  long  before  she  launched  out  into  the 
fulfilment  of  her  new  role  with  all  the  zeal  and  confidence 
she  could  muster — a  scholarly  Cleopatra  tempting  her 
Antony. 

Incessantly  she  talked  to  him  of  things  idealistic,  hunt- 
ing for  examples  continually,  to  prove  her  contention  that 
he  was  wasting  his  highly  endowed  nature.  She  gave  him 
books  to  read  wherein  passages  were  marked  for  him. 
By  a  strange  coincidence,  one  Saturday  evening,  she 
forced  upon  him  Rossetti's  "Saint  Agnes,"  a  companion 
piece  to  the  leather  bound  edition  which  so  long  lay 
mouldering  on  the  library  table.  Nearly  the  first  pas- 
sage that  he  came  across  seemed  to  be  carried  to  him  by 
angelic  messengers: 

"Some  lives  of  men  are  as  the  sea  is,  continually  vexed 
and  trampled  with  winds.  Others  are,  as  it  were,  left  on  the 
beach." 

,r 

It  was  inopportune,  as  he  lay  in  bed  that  night,  his 
thoughts  convoyed  by  a  host  of  smiling,  endearing  faces, 


66  THE    TAKER 

that  his  wife  should  knock  on  the  door  and  call  him  plain- 
tively, in  a  worried,  whispered  voice: 

"Leonard,  Leonard,  please  come  in  to  Maxine.  I  am 
so  frightened  about  her." 

With  a  smothered  curse  ranging  in  his  thoughts,  Ver- 
non  wheeled  out  of  bed,  put  on  his  dressing  robe,  and 
went  into  the  next  room,  where  he  found  his  wife  and 
one  of  the  servants  bending  anxiously  over  the  writhing 
form  of  his  daughter. 

As  he  came  in  Jennie  ran  up  to  him  with  the  cry: 
"Lennie,  I  am  scared  to  death.  Get  the  doctor,  quick 
as  you  can.  She's  been  moaning  and  tossing  for  over 
an  hour." 

He  ran  over  to  the  bed,  impelled  more  by  a  thrust  at 
his  conscience  than  by  any  love  for  the  suffering  child, 
and  saw  how  damp  was  the  soft,  pale  skin  of  his  offspring, 
how  matted  from  tears  was  the  fine  blonde  hair  at  the 
temples. 

And  into  his  heart  stole  a  momentary  feeling  that  he 
might  be  punished  in  some  unseen  way  if  he  did  not  im- 
mediately love  this  child  as  a  father  should,  and  try  to 
save  its  life. 

So  he  rushed  down  to  the  telephone  and  as  he  called 
the  doctor's  number,  was  even  surprised  that  his  voice 
should  so  choke  with  excitement. 

His  daughter  died  at  five  o'clock.  When  he  stole  away 
from  the  hysterical  mother  and  went  to  his  own  room 
nearly  an  hour  later,  he  was  unable  to  comprehend  what 
had  happened.  The  shock  of  it  seemed  buried  so  deep  in 
him  that  it  could  not  be  reached.  Sitting  on  the  edge  of 
his  bed  he  watched  the  early  sun  filter  through  the  drab 
silk  curtains,  like  something  new  born  slowly  gaining 
courage  to  assert  itself.  Somehow  there  seemed  a  mes- 


THE    TAKER  67 

sage  for  him  in  its  revealing  light.  All  was  over  for  him 
in  life  now.  He  had  sensed  that,  as  life  had  ebbed  away 
from  his  beautiful  daughter. 

If  only  he  could  have  known  before.  He  might  have 
thrown  all  his  ambitions  at  her  hesitating  feet  and  had 
real  joy  in  building  up  a  future  for  her. 

In  the  piecemeal  light  reflected  at  his  feet,  the  printed 
message  began  blazing  now  with  significance : 

"Some  lives  of  men  are  as  the  sea  is,  continually  vexed 
and  trampled  with  winds.  Others  are,  as  it  were,  left  on  the 
beach." 

And  he  thought  "God  pity  me — what  am  I  coming  to  ?" 

For  over  an  hour  he  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  in  a 
stifling  silence.  A  procession  of  past  events  flocked  to 
his  mind.  He  saw  himself  at  college,  leaving  his  mother, 
his  decision  to  be  a  draughtsman — then  his  meeting  with 
Jennie,  his  marriage  to  her 

After  that  Mabel  Gillette's  attack  found  him  resisting 
less  and  less.  Her  love  for  him  impelled  her  and  while 
he  more  and  more  welcomed  her  crooned-out  restless 
words,  she  valiantly  sequestered  every  spark  of  her  own 
ambition  for  love  and  affection. 

Until  a  certain  afternoon,  some  three  months  later. 

Day  after  day  he  was  conscious  that  a  definite  decision 
about  the  future  must  come  to  pass  between  Jennie  and 
himself.  It  got  so  that  Jennie's  alternating  threats  and 
tears  made  him  find  Mabel  the  only  haven  he  could  turn  to. 

It  was  about  five  o'clock  that  he  met  Jennie  driving 
down  the  street  toward  the  factory  just  as  he  was  coming 
out.  She  was  pale  and  her  eyes  looked  heavy  and  red. 

He  tried  to  cover  his  surprise  by  casually  inquiring: 

"You  were  coming  in  to  see  me?" 


68  THE    TAKER 

Pathetically  she  searched  his  face.  "I  think — it's  best, 
Leonard — that  we  see  each  other." 

She  did  not  wait  for  him  to  direct  the  way  but  quietly 
turned  and  walked  into  the  building.  She  seemed  to  take 
it  for  granted  that  he  would  follow  her. 

When  they  gained  his  private  office  and  Leonard  had 
shut  the  door  after  them,  she  began  directly. 

"Leonard,  you're  not  happy,  are  you?" 

He  was  not  quite  ready  to  have  her  plunge  into  the 
scene  he  had  gone  over  so  many  times  in  his  mind.  He 
had  pictured  an  entirely  different  procedure.  He  would 
approach  her  some  evening,  half  in  tears,  explaining  to 
her  that  it  was  as  much  for  her  sake  as  his  own  that  they 
part.  And  now  quite  sternly  she  was  confronting  him. 
At  last  he  managed : 

"Well,  Jen,  I  guess  you  know  I'm  not  so — so  very 
happy." 

She  came  back  instantly.  "Yes,  I  know."  Then  she 
went  into  what  apparently  had  been  an  arrangement  in 
her  mind  for  days.  "We'll  arrange  a  divorce,  Leonard. 
I'll  go  out  to  Reno  and  establish  a  residence  and  you  must 
give  me  what  I  think  is  necessary" — she  paused  for  a 
moment,  then  said — "you  know  it  will  only  be  what  is 
necessary — and  I'll  give  you  this  freedom  you're  so 
anxious  to  get."  She  seemed  on  the  verge  of  breaking 
down  as  she  continued,  "Of  course,  nothing  means  very 
much  to  me,  and  so  you  take  over  my  share  in  the  factory 
in  the  way  you  think  is  fair, — out  of  the  profits,  or  any 
way.  The  house  we  live  in  is  mine,"  she  added,  "so  I 
suppose  I'll  keep  that." 

She  rose  from  the  chair,  while  Leonard  stood  watching 
her,  quite  inarticulate  from  the  calm,  sure  manner  in 


THE    TAKER  69 

which  she  spoke.  Just  at  the  door  she  turned.  Now,  for 
the  first  time  her  voice  quivered. 

Leonard,  why  is  it  that  women  love  you  so?  Why  is 
it  that  even  now  I  am  doing  what  you  want  me  to 
do  in  sacrificing  myself?"  She  looked  straight  into  his 
eyes.  "Of  course,  you  are  handsome — every  one  is  aware 
of  that — but  you  have  one  fault  after  another.  You 
fake,  yes,  just  fake  all  the  time.  Everything  you  have 
ever  gotten  has  come  easy  for  you.  You've  never 
really  worked  or  had  to  work  in  your  whole  life.  And 
you  never  will.  You're  just  so  selfish.  You're  always 
thinking  how  some  one  is  going  to  bring  something  to 
you  and  how  you're  going  to  take  from  them.  You  never 
think  of  how  you  must  work  to  get  anything.  Why,  in 
all  the  time  we  have  been  married,  I  have  never  seen  you 
sit  home  and  read  and  think  like  other  men.  Oh,  I  have 
watched  you.  Your  mind  is  always  working  around  your- 
self." She  braced  herself  against  the  sill  of  the  door 
and  then  turned  away  from  him.  His  anger  was  rising 
too  as  he  heard  her  say,  "Yet  I  love  you,  Lennie,  I'll  love 
and  worship  you  as  long  as  I  live.  That's  the  funny 
part  of  it." 

Then  she  broke  down  completely  and,  while  he  stood 
watching  her,  she  ran  down  the  hall.  One  hoarse  sob 
after  another  came  to  his  ears,  until  she  shut  the  factory 
door  after  her. 

In  the  days  that  followed  this  interview,  right  up  to  the 
time  when  he  heard  that  Jennie,  bowed  and  broken,  had 
taken  a  train  for  the  West,  the  following  conviction  be- 
came more  and  more  firmly  imbedded  in  his  mind.  It  was 
this: 

The  real  reason  for  his  unhappiness  from  his  youth 


70  THE    TAKER 

on  was  simply  because  of  his  blind  and  constant  idealistic 
search  for  physical  and  material  beauty  and  an  entire 
ignoring  of  the  true  question  of  life — spiritual  and  mental 
companionship. 


CHAPTER  X 

THAT  her  marriage  to  the  broad-shouldered  and 
shaggy-browed  Lester  Moore  changed  matters  very 
little  for  her,  Marcy  learned  soon  enough.  Three  months 
passed  and  yet  her  feeling  of  restless  unhappiness  with 
him  was  just  as  great  as  when  she  had  married  him. 

Somehow,  they  could  not  get  acquainted. 

Except  for  his  thundering  ownership,  and  his  physical 
demands,  there  was  little  difference  from  the  time  when  she 
was  at  home,  cooking  and  taking  care  of  the  house  for 
her  father.  She  had  just  as  much  work  to  do  and  had  to 
live  in  her  dreams  of  the  future  quite  as  often  if  she 
wanted  to  be  happy. 

There  was  only  one  exception  as  the  months  passed — 
an  occupation  that  made  up  for  everything  else,  an  oc- 
cupation that  she  sheltered  in  a  harbour  of  silence  and 
subterfuge. 

She  began  to  make  a  tiny  woollen  jacket.  All  her 
spare  time  was  spent  at  it,  working  in  an  ecstasy  of  ex- 
citement as  if  it  were  some  game  at  which  she  must  win. 
It  was  the  one  oasis  of  bliss  for  her,  and  she  kept  it  secret 
and  guarded. 

But  this  was  not  a  difficult  task. 

Evening  after  evening,  Lester  came  in,  said:  "What 
have  you  got  for  supper,  Marcy?" — sat  and  ate  silently, 
morosely — then,  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  over,  threw  on 
his  coat  and  rushed  out  to  some  saloon  or  to  a  place 
where  the  crowds  spent  the  night  playing  pool. 

In  these  first  three  months  he  apparently  grew  to  resent 

71 


72  THE    TAKER 

every  feeling  he  had  ever  divided  with  her,  even  the  affec- 
tion that  he  had  bestowed  upon  her  in  the  earlier  period 
of  their  companionship. 

One  day  at  the  end  of  July  he  came  home  hot  and 
tired. 

"Say,  Marcy,"  he  questioned,  as  he  found  her  looking 
at  the  joke  page  of  a  Sunday  paper,  which  she  had 
hastily  grabbed  up  as  she  saw  him  coming,  "what  do  you 
do  all  day?" 

A  good  deal  frightened  by  his  manner,  she  looked  up 
at  him. 

"Why,  Lester,  there's  a  lot  to  do.  Don't  everything 
look  nice  and  clean?" 

He  laughed  derisively. 

"Say,  that  ain't  what  I  work  all  day  for."  Then  he 
went  on  slowly,  calculating,  "Marcy,  I've  been  thinking 
about  it.  I  guess  you  better  come  over  to  the  factory 
and  get  a  job  with  the  rest  of  the  girls." 

"Lester,  you  mean  you  want  me  to  work  all  day  at 
the  factory?"  She  was  bewildered  by  his  sudden  pro- 
posal. 

"Sure,  why  not?  You'd  have  had  to  do  it  if  I  hadn't 
married  you." 

"But  that's  why  I  got  married,"  she  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  was  it?" 

"Then,  Lester,  I  wouldn't  have  time,"  she  ran  on, 
more  guardedly.  "There's  a  lot  I  do  here  that  you  don't 
know  nothing  about." 

An  hour  later,  after  continued  upbraiding  from  her  hus- 
band, there  came  in  defence  the  words  she  had  fought 
hard  to  hush.  She  told  him  how  she  had  been  doing 
something  other  than  cooking  and  housework,  after  all, 
and  she  went  to  the  bureau  drawer  and  held  up  a  little 


THE    TAKER  73 

blue  woollen  jacket,  so  tiny  and  queer  that  it  could  not 
have  been  slipped  over  his  closed  fist.  It  made  him  laugh 
outright  when  he  saw  it. 

But  he  came  closer  to  her.  "What's  all  this  about?" 
he  demanded. 

"Why,  I  don't  know,  Lester,"  she  answered  meekly,  even 
fearsomely,  as  she  saw  that  he  was  strangely  angered 
about  it.  "I  just  wanted  to  do  it,  that's  all.  I'm  just 
showing  it  to  you  to  show  you  that  I  haven't  been  doing 
nothing." 

He  was  angry  with  her,  angrier  still,  when  she  could  no 
longer  hold  the  tears  back  from  her  eyes.  And  when 
she  tried  to  protect  the  little  knitted  garment  from  him 
by  folding  it  in  her  arms,  his  indignation  seemed  to  over- 
whelm him. 

"Who  told  you  to  do  that?"  he  demanded. 

She  tried  hard  to  remember  how  she  had  happened  to 
begin  knitting  the  little  jacket.  All  of  a  sudden  it 
seemed  that  a  mighty  host  of  enmity  for  this  man  was 
overcoming  her,  and  stifling  her  reason. 

"Why — why,  Lester,"  she  found  her  throat  blocking 
with  emotion,  "no  one  told  me.  I  just  did  it.  I  thought 
— why,  Lester — I  thought  maybe  you'd  like  me  to  do  it." 

In  another  moment  he  jerked  the  garment  from  her  and 
tore  it,  into  many  pieces. 

"I'll  tend  to  that  end  of  it,"  he  said. 

The  garment  had  been  precious  to  her.  In  it  were 
stored  all  the  secret  yearnings  and  flooding  words  of 
love  that  had  found  no  other  haven.  Now  she  could  not 
sing  to  it  and  talk  to  it  the  way  she  had  done  for  so 
many  days.  And  she  looked  up  at  him,  the  anger  she 
felt  blazing  in  her  eyes. 

"I   did  it  because  I — because   I  wanted  to — because 


74  THE    TAKER 

something  made  me  do  it,"  she  cried.  "Oh,  I  hate  you, 
you  brute." 

As  she  stood  in  front  of  him  and  saw  the  sneering 
smile  curve  his  mouth,  she  felt  that  the  only  release  she 
could  get  from  her  feelings  would  come  from  tearing  at 
his  throat  and  beating  his  face.  He  had  destroyed  the 
thing  that  was  closer  to  her  than  anything  she  had 
known  her  whole  life. 

"Oh!  for  you  to  do  it.  Oh!"  she  moaned,  and  fell 
limp  into  a  chair  by  the  table,  her  head  buried  in  her 
arms,  the  while  she  uncontrolledly  sobbed  with  hoarse, 
low  cries. 

When,  after  a  period  of  contemplation,  the  husband 
came  over  to  her,  apparently  sorry  that  he  should  have 
been  the  cause  of  all  this  fuss,  she  wrenched  herself  loose 
from  him. 

"I  just  want  to  die!"  she  shouted.  "I  just  want  to 
die!" 

Moore  took  hold  of  her  shoulders.  He  tried  to  be  more 
gentle  with  her,  though  not  enough  to  let  her  see  that  he 
was  sorry. 

"Say,  Marcy,"  he  said,  "brace  up;  what's  the  use  of 
carrying  on  like  this?" 

But  she  only  moaned,  "I'm  so  miserable,  I'm  so  miser- 
able. I  hoped  that  the  little  jacket  would  make  you 
know  what  would  make  me  happy." 

"Well,  I  told  you  when  I'm  ready  for  a  kid,  we'll  have 
one — and  not  before,  see?" 

It  was  over  an  hour  before  he  could  quiet  her. 

Lester's  revelation  brought  no  great  change,  however. 
He  kept  to  his  habits  even  more  studiously,  fighting  off 
now,  more  than  ever,  any  sign  of  regret.  The  thought 
was  ever  pregnant  in  his  understanding  that  he  had  lost 


THE    TAKER  75 

control  of  her  only  because  of  the  affection  which  he 
had  given  her.  It  was  no  way  to  control  your  woman. 

This  last  thought  harried  the  boy  more  than  anything 
else.  It  seemed  a  crime  to  spend  a  moment  in  any  affec- 
tion not  born  out  of  physical  need.  When  some  days 
later  he  felt  her  frail  call  for  help  weakening  him,  he 
stayed  away  from  tke  house  for  two  days.  He  needed 
this  proof  for  her  as  well  as  himself,  that  he  was  a  strong- 
minded  individual. 

And  her  lamentable  entreaties,  sprung  from  the  soil 
that  must  either  fertilise  or  become  barren,  found  no 
answer  in  his  heart  or  soul ;  her  thirsting  appeal  for  pas- 
sionate regard  and  affection  could  not  be  slaked  in  his 
well  of  understanding.  She  might  have  been  one  of 
Ashur's  widows  for  all  her  pitiful  wail  was  heeded. 

Six  months  after  her  marriage  to  Lester  Moore,  simple 
little  Marcy  found  herself  entirely  estranged  from  the 
man  she  had  married. 

All  the  wondering  she  indulged  in,  all  the  scanning 
and  searching  of  her  understanding,  failed  to  supply  her 
with  a  plausible  reason  or  give  greater  facility  for  work- 
ing out  the  situation. 

Her  task  at  last  came  to  be  a  simple  one. 

She  only  waited  for  to-morrow,  accepting  stoically 
in  her  queer  childish  way  the  unsatisfying  lot  that  was 
plainly  her  share  in  life. 


CHAPTER  XI 

TT^OR  a  week  after  the  settlement  with  his  wife,  Leonard 
*•  Vernon  indulged  in  a  period  of  feverish  contempla- 
tion that  painfully  distorted  the  hitherto  easily  disposed 
of  problem. 

Continually  he  told  himself  that  now  he  was  free; 
yet  every  thought  of  Miss  Gillette  strangely  scorched  him, 
like  some  invisible,  white  flame. 

And  whenever  the  thought  confronted  him  that  hers 
might  be  the  greatest  flattery,  Leonard  smothered  the 
idea  as  one  steps  on  a  spider  and  crunches  out  its  life. 

It  was  queer  indeed  how  his  path  of  future  endeavour 
stretched  out  in  front  of  him. 

And  how  he  was  impelled  to  walk  that  road. 

It  really  seemed  that  it  was  a  task  that  could  only  be 
gotten  over  by  doing  it.  If  Mabel  Gillette  had  been  more 
attractive,  physically,  there  might  have  been  some  en- 
joyment in  prolonging  a  clandestine  friendship,  which 
marriage,  of  course,  always  spoiled. 

But  here  was  so  much  medicine  to  be  taken  for  the  sake 
of  a  future  mental  strength. 

Miss  Gillette  was  hardly  pleasing  to  look  at,  indeed 
a  very  sad  comparison,  whenever  he  thought  of  Jennie — 
in  the  physical  sense.  But  had  not  the  physical  of 
Jennie  held  him  stupefied  for  a  long  enough  time?  He 
had  unclasped  its  manacles  now.  Of  course  it  was  only 
foresight  that  he  should  wed  himself  to  the  key. 

Leonard  took  the  decisive  step  very  soon  after  he  heard 

76 


THE    TAKER  77 

that  Jennie  had  obtained  a  divorce  on  the  grounds  of 
desertion. 

In  fact,  it  was  just  two  days  after  the  information 
had  reached  him  that  he,  waiting  until  the  office  force  had 
gone  for  the  day,  called  Mabel  in  from  the  outer  office. 
Very  seriously  he  said: 

"Mabel,  I'm  going  to  marry  you.  I  don't  know 
whether  or  not  this  will  come  to  you  as  a  surprise.  At 
least  you  are  surely  aware  how  much  I  depend  on  you." 

For  fear  of  seeing  the  satisfaction  on  her  face,  he 
steadily  scrutinised  a  lead  pencil  which  he  twirled  with 
his  thumb  and  first  finger. 

"I  don't  care  what  the  people  here  will  say,  Mabel. 
You  know  I  have  fixed  myself  against  that  here  at  the 
factory.  And  socially,  I  believe  our  ambitions  are  above 
the  habits  of  Hastings."  He  continued  thoughtfully: 
"Yes,  I  want  to  marry  you,  Mabel.  You  have  taken 
hold  of  my  ambitions  where  I  left  them  a  long  time  ago." 
Even  more  meditatively,  he  added :  "You  know,  it's  been 
a  long  while  since  I've  had  a  companion  in  the  real  sense." 

As  he  worded  this  last  thought,  his  jaws  set  hard. 

He  wanted  to  say  much  more,  to  talk  over  the  art 
that  he  had  given  up — temporarily — of  course.  And  how 
he  would  like  to  take  up  a  little  more  of  it  again.  And 
how  she  should  get  interested  in  painting  so  she  could 
advise  and  help  him. 

But  Miss  Gillette  broke  in  upon  his  contemplated  state- 
ments. She  wilted  as  a  delicate  flower  wilts  in  a  searing 
breeze. 

"Oh,  Leonard !"  she  cried.    "Leonard,  Leonard !" 

She  could  say  no  more  than  that. 

But  he  could  not  kiss  her. 

She  was  not  another  Jennie. 


78  THE    TAKER 

Although  she  startled  him  quite  when  she  frenziedly 
grasped  his  arm  with  her  long,  thin  fingers,  and  clung  to 
him.  Indeed,  he  did  not  exactly  understand  the  pain  of 
disappointment  and  wonderment  that  swept  through  him 
at  the  moment.  He  could  not  help  looking  at  her  in 
the  impersonal  way  one  surveys  a  stranger — and  rebelling 
a  little.  He  could  not  help  asking  himself  if  all  women 
were  transformed  into  a  common  idiocy  that  mounted  the 
instant  love  was  mentioned. 

Suddenly  this  woman  so  close  to  him  appeared  to  have 
become  a  good  deal  like  Jennie,  in  the  way  she  hung  on 
him.  Also  he  noticed  that  she  was  wearing  the  same  sort 
of  lace  collar,  with  its  points  encircling  her  neck,  that 
Jennie  wore  when  he  first  met  her. 

There  came  a  feeling  that  clutched  at  his  heart,  and 
choked  his  throat  with  the  silent  words : 

"Oh  God,  what  is  life  anyway?  What  do  I  keep  on 
doing  with  myself?  Here  am  I  getting  old,  yet  I  am 
shutting  out  more  than  ever  all  my  chances  with  this 
clinging  thing  tied  to  me.  What's  the  matter  with  me?" 

For  the  first  time  he  was  definitely  conscious  of  her 
resemblance  to  Jennie. 

When  it  was  too  late ! 

...  In  the  days  that  followed,  days  that  were  only 
staccatoed  spans  of  discontent,  Mabel  became  as  the  ac- 
cepted dregs  in  his  cup  of  disappointment. 

If  Jennie  had  pawed  him  and  bored  him  with  her  be- 
nignant caresses,  Mabel's  queer  manner  ,of  shrinking 
lovemaking,  of  meeting  him  with  her  ghastly  smile  of 
affectionate  regard,  of  showing  unmentionable  inner  pain 
at  his  least  brow  shrivelling,  pained  him  past  endurance. 

He  would  have  undone  the  whole   thing  many   times 


THE    TAKER  79 

had  not  everybody  in  the  town  liked  her  so.  She  soon 
became  a  force  in  municipal  affairs,  heading  the  sewing 
leagues  and  "anti"  crusades,  against  everything  from 
flies  to  vice.  At  the  factory,  she  formed  societies  for 
the  prevention  of  many  things.  She  was  universally 
loved.  All  of  which  made  Vernon  guard  his  delinquent 
allegiance  to  her  with  distasteful  tact  and  precaution. 
For  now,  there  seemed  at  stake  the  vitality  of  his  ever- 
increasing  business. 

It  was  like  being  in  a  velvet  cushioned  vise  from  which 
there  was  no  escape. 

And  although  his  visits  to  New  York  were  made  with 
more  and  more  frequency,  they  never  blunted  the  feeling 
that  overcame  him,  whenever  he  was  with  Mabel;  a  feel- 
ing that  always  made  him  imagine  her  his  jailer,  watching 
for  his  first  burst  for  freedom. 

There  came  now  in  Leonard's  career  just  a  long  period 
jf  ghastly  reminiscence  and  slackening  hope. 

He  could  hardly  face  her  maudlin  way  of  meeting  some 
unkind  word  of  his  by  saying: 

"Lennie,  darling,  you're  so  tired  and  nervous." 

It  wasn't  difficult  for  him  to  see  the  very  proportions  of 
Jennie  in  her  place;  which  really  served  to  solace  him 
a  little. 

Soon  he  actually  found  himself  laughing  at  the  realisa- 
tion that  Mabel  was  only  the  reincarnated  husk  of  Jennie. 

Even  as  he  sat  in  his  luxurious  gold-leaf  office,  this 
sardonic  contemplation  was  not  tempered.  Trying  to 
experiment  with  a  prognosis  of  his  future,  Mabel's  face 
suffering  with  repression  and  enduring,  instantly  obtruded 
itself  into  the  deep  shadows  of  the  perspective. 

One  Friday  evening,  under  the  guise  of  business  pres- 
sure, he  took  a  trip  to  New  York  and  tried  to  break  loose 


80  THE    TAKER 

from  his  shackles,  tried  to  defy  the  realisation  that  the 
borders  of  his  future  were  converging  and  offered  no  es- 
cape. 

But  Mabel's  smiling,  pain-cheery  face  haunted  him. 

It  was  like  having  some  sharp  projectile,  a  Damoclean 
instrument  hanging  over  him,  penetrating  his  pleasures, 
symbolising  her  quivering  love  in  every  pleasure  cranny 
in  which  he  sought  a  haven. 

During  this  time  Jennie  began  fading  in  on  him,  like 
some  spirit  form,  which  had  lost  him  for  a  good  many 
years  and  then  suddenly  encountered  him.  Standing 
under  the  eaves  of  the  Knickerbocker  Hotel  at  42nd 
street  one  day  a  woman  passed  him  whose  physical 
contour  was  a  good  deal  like  Jennie's.  Immediately  there 
was  a  materialisation  of  the  spirit.  Jennie  stood  in 
front  of  him  with  her  dimpled  chin,  her  soft  round  cheeks 
and  golden  hair.  It  was  nearly  an  hour  before  he  could 
turn  and  go  back  into  the  bar  and  ask  for  a  drink  to 
shatter  the  illusion.  And  even  then  he  was  pursued  by 
new  conceptions  of  Jennie's  beauty,  her  heavy  arms,  her 
wealth  of  lustrous  yellow  hair. 

When  he  returned  home  to  Mabel,  nervous  and  irritable 
and  she,  seeing  how  pale  and  worn  he  looked,  threw  her 
thin  arms  around  his  neck,  he  actually  felt  as  if  he  must 
push  her  away  from  him  and  immediately  seek  Jennie. 

Where  Jennie's  arm  had  its  cushion  of  fat,  the  bones  of 
Mabel's  elbows  dug  into  him. 

Yet  Mabel  complained  very  little  about  his  treatment  of 
her.  And  after  much  wondering  and  speculation  as  to 
why  she  wouldn't  fight  back  and  point  out  to  him  what 
he  was  doing,  Leonard  conceived  the  idea  that  in  him 
she  held  forth  some  future  metamorphosis  and  that  with 
Spartan-like  endurance  she  was  only  biding  her  time.  In 


THE    TAKER  81 

a  vague  way  he  was  aware,  now,  of  the  understanding  that 
as  Jennie  had  rolled  her  body  on  the  floor  after  she  was 
married  so  had  this  woman  rolled  her  mind  in  the  deep 
books  of  philosophy. 

What  bothered  him  most,  however,  was  that  he  felt 
sorry  for  her. 

He  felt  sorry  for  her,  even  while  some  fresh,  common- 
place remark,  or  some  obvious  quotation,  which  was  be- 
coming more  and  more  a  habit  with  her,  rang  painfully 
in  his  ears. 

One  day,  he  decided  to  walk  to  the  factory  for  the 
exercise  this  would  give  him  and  Mabel  went  to  the  gate  to 
see  him  off.  Just  as  he  shut  it  after  him,  she  remarked, 
looking  at  the  clouding  sky: 

"I  believe  it's  going  to  rain,  Leonard.  Perhaps  you 
ought  to  take  an  umbrella.  You  know  it  never  rains  when 
one  has  an  umbrella." 

Her  words  hounded  him  all  day.  He  could  not  help 
repeating — "It  never  rains  when  one  has  an  umbrella," — 
then  laughing  at  the  horror  of  it. 

Yet  it  was  that  same  afternoon  while  at  a  Board  Meet- 
ing at  the  factory  that  he  saw  her  hanging  from  a  rafter 
in  the  attic  with  a  rope  around  her  neck.  He  rushed 
home  only  to  have  Mabel  meet  him  smiling  and  cheerful. 
And  when  she  threw  her  thin  arms  around  his  neck  the 
old  regret  for  his  alarm  smote  him. 

Unfortunately  Mabel  stopped  him  that  evening  just  as 
he  was  on  his  way  to  get  in  a  night  of  billiards  and  man- 
conversation  at  the  Golf  Club.  Hesitating,  halting,  as  if 
she  dared  not  trespass  upon  the  borderland  of  his  desires, 
she  asked,  simply  enough: 

"Where — where  are  you  going,  Leonard?" 

He  looked  at  her.     A  thought  raced  through  him  that 


82  THE    TAKER 

the  whitened  face  and  thin  lips  were  the  result  of  some 
long  unworded  decision.  He  wondered  what  he  should 
say  to  her  to  postpone  any  possible  argument. 

"Why,"  he  muttered  at  last,  "I  am  going — out,  Mabel." 

Thinking  to  soften  the  moment  he  debonairly  took  his 
cigar  between  his  fingers  and  started  to  kiss  her;  but  she 
began  to  talk,  slowly,  suppressedly,  her  voice  delicate, 
wistful,  yet  strangely  hollow  and  dry.  The  old  inquisitive 
softness,  however,  was  gone. 

"Leonard,  tell  me,"  she  began,  "are  you  thinking  these 
days?  Are  you  realising  what  I  must  go  through — get- 
ting so  little  and  giving  you  so  little — when  there  is  so 
much  that  I  could  do  for  you?" 

As  she  went  on  she  took  hold  of  his  hands.  At  that 
moment  he  was  more  conscious  of  her  pointed  fingers  than 
ever  before.  Looking  down  at  them  he  could  see  how 
her  nails  were  making  little  blue  marks  in  the  flesh  of  his 
wrists.  He  felt  like  jerking  away  from  her  or  even 
hurting  her  a  little  in  return.  Only  the  sickly  plea  of 
the  blue  veins  as  they  showed  through  the  thin,  parched 
skin  held  him. 

So  he  looked  up,  and  tried  to  keep  softness  in  his 
voice. 

"Why — what  do  you  mean,  Mabel?" 

"Oh,"  she  went  on  earnestly,  "I've  had  a  lot  of  time 
to  think,  Leonard.  Yesterday  I  was  reading  a  passage 
from — from  Victor  Hugo.  He  said  that  our  lives  are 
only  brief  reprieves,  a  short  interval  in  which  we  must 
do  and  get,  and  that  the  world  soon  forgets  us.  It  made 
me  think,  Leonard,  how  little — you  and  I  realise  it."  She 
looked  pleadingly  at  him.  "You  know,  I  just  want  to 
help  you,  Leonard.  That's  all." 

It  was  hard  to  know  what  to  do.     She  looked  so  be- 


THE    TAKER  83 

seechingly  at  him,  so  pathetically,  as  she  placed  one 
arm  against  the  centre  table  for  support.  Nor  was  it 
easy  for  him  to  defend  himself  by  assailing  her.  Her 
frailty  so  disarmed  him.  Standing  there  he  thought  to 
himself,  "If  she  were  only  a  woman  like  other  women 
and  would  fight  back." 

Her  longing  gaze  on  him,  the  while  her  eyes  reddened 
and  filled  slowly  with  tears,  made  him  feel  like  striking 
her  just  to  force  her  to  fight  back.  But  in  the  next 
moment  he  weakened  through  real  pity  and  was  even  on 
the  point  of  apologising  and  telling  her  he  would  do 
better,  when  he  saw  how  disastrous  this  would  be  to  any 
possible  lessening  of  her  weight  upon  him. 

So,  instead,  he  scrutinised  her  imperiously,  with  the 
manner  he  used  in  business,  and  drawled:  "I  don't  need 
any  help,  Mabel.  I  guess  I'm  all  right.  Fve  done  pretty 
well,  except — well,  it's  no  use  to  dig  up  the  past." 

Apparently  unaware  of  his  thrust,  Mabel  went  on  per- 
sistently. A  martyr-like  expression  encircled  her  eyes  and 
her  mouth  trembled  wearily  with  emotion. 

"Leonard,  you're  neglecting  yourself  more  than  you 
know.  Oh,  Leonard,  don't  turn  away  from  me.  You 
see  I  just  must  tell  you  what  I  feel."  The  tears  ran 
down  her  cheeks,  though  her  face  still  smiled.  "What  is 
life  anyway,  Leonard?  What's  the  use  of  all  the  ecsta- 
sies and  sorrows  if  you  just  rush  madly  along,  blunting 
day  by  day — oh,  I  can  see  it,  Leonard,  it's  tragic  I  tell 
you — just  blunting  your  brilliant  mental  gifts,  drowning 
every  possibility  of  ideal  life,  with  your  desire  to  make 
money  and  be  successful?  Oh,"  she  whispered,  coming 
closer  to  him  and  winding  her  arms  around  his  neck — 
"I'm  worried  about  you — I'm  honestly  sorry  for  you, 
You  are  too  big  a  man  to  let  up  like  this." 


84  THE    TAKER 

For  a  moment  he  suffered  her  embrace.  It  was  hard  to 
think  with  her  tear-laden  eyes  confronting  him.  But 
when  her  lips  came  close  to  his  lips  he  tore  loose  from 
her  and  stalked  about  the  room,  exasperated  that  her 
emotions  should  hold  him  mentally  inarticulate.  And 
when  he  saw  that  he  was  really  beginning  to  sympathise 
with  her  he  turned  and  excitedly  grasped  her  arms,  try- 
ing to  word  his  thoughts  before  he  should  weaken  too 
much.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  indeed,  to  get  into  the 
clutches  of  this  ugly,  hysterical  woman. 

"Look  here,"  he  said.  "I  don't  want  you  worrying 
about  me.  What  do  you  suppose  has  gone  on  in  my 
mind — since  you  seem  to  want  to  talk  about  mind?  Don't 
you  suppose  I  have  been  thinking  all  these  years  ?  Well, 
•I  have,  and  I'll  tell  you  something.  I've  blundered.  I've 
made  a  mistake.  I'm  a  fool.  What  do  I  care  about 
this  'ecstasy  of  life*  business  ?  I'm  not  an  artist  hunting 
for  emotional  climaxes.  I  was  once,  but  I  stopped  as 
soon  as  I  saw  what  life  really  meant.  And  I'll  tell  you 
now,  things  like  that  are  meant  to  solace  failures.  And  I 
am  a  success.  And  I  mean  to  be  a  success." 

Her  mouth  dropped  open  with  surprise,  as  he  went  on, 
even  more  vindictively  than  ever. 

"Well,  you  had  just  as  well  know  it,  Mabel.  I  am 
trying  to  get  down  to  earth.  From  now  on  I'm  going 
to  take  what  everybody  else  takes  and  be  happy.  All 
the  stuff  you've  fed  up  on  means  nothing  to  me." 

Leonard  looked  at  her  steadily,  now.  Two  thoughts 
raced  with  appalling  rapidity  through  his  mind.  One 
was  that  he  could  word  with  so  much  facility  an  idea 
that  he  had  never  before  been  able  to  approach ;  the 
thorny  cactus  which  had  always  been  in  the  middle  of 
his  rose  bed  of  intentions  but  which  he  had  never  dared — 


THE    TAKER  85 

touch  with  ungloved  fingers.  The  other  was  that  he  could 
word  so  easily  an  idea,  every  proportion  of  which  was,  he 
knew,  a  lie,  to  his  craving  for  an  ideal  emotional  life. 

Yet  he  went  on,  slowly  and  confidently,  fighting  ,'he 
more  against  her  as  he  saw  the  thin  dilated  nostrils  and 
quivering  lips. 

"No,  Mabel,  we  haven't  time  for  such  things.  We've 
got  to  stick  closer  to  natural  laws.  Do  you  see  what  I 
mean  ?  Jennie — understood." 

Mabel  interrupted  him,  her  words  ringing  out  un- 
naturally, falsetto  with  emotion. 

"Leonard!  Leonard!  You  mean  you  have  made  a 
mistake  with  me?  You  mean  you  don't  love  me,  Leonard? 
You  mean  that  you  haven't  all  the  time?" 

Then  she  turned  from  him,  her  hands  holding  her  tem- 
ples, and  again  clutching  at  the  air,  as  if  she  might 
draw  out  of  the  walls  some  defence  for  her  plea. 

Leonard  walked  out  into  the  hallway,  for  no  apparent 
reason  stopping  to  turn  on  the  orange  coloured  wall 
lamp,  just  inside  the  door-arch.  "I  guess  I'll  go  now, 
Mabel,"  he  said.  "Maybe  it's  best  we  have  had  this 
understanding.  Maybe" — he  blew  a  perfect  ring  with 
the  grey  smoke  of  his  cigar — "maybe  we  can  cut  out 
some  of  this  highbrow  stuff.  I'm  pretty  sick  of  it." 
He  thought  a  moment.  "After  all,  Mabel,  you  know 
we  never  talked  about  love,  anyway.  You  think  about 
it."  His  eyes  roamed  up  and  down  her  form.  A  thought 
struck  him  that  while  he  was  at  it  he  might  as  well  make 
his  apparent  defence  as  strong  as  possible.  "This  mental 
business  is  making  you  thin.  Better  try  taking  a  couple 
of  raw  eggs  and  milk  every  once  in  a  while." 

He  hesitated  again. 


86  THE    TAKER 

"You  need  fattening,  Mabel,"  he  said  as  he  passed  out 
of  the  door. 

It  was  an  interesting  coincidence  that  he  should  re- 
ceive a  special  delivery  letter  the  next  morning  from  his 
mother  in  Ohio  which,  by  some  strange  chance,  mocked 
his  every  thought. 

"My  dear  son:"   it  said. 

"I  wonder  how  you  are  getting  along  with  Mabel,  your 
wife.  I'm  so  afraid,  my  boy,  that  you're  not  happy.  There's 
no  one  here  I  can  talk  to.  You  are  simply  a  great  success  in 
the  East,  but  a  mother  has  the  right  to  pour  out  her  thoughts 
to  her  own  boy,  and,  my  darling,  I  want  you  to  understand 
what  I  am  going  to  say. 

"Last  night  I  sat  by  the  window  until  nearly  midnight  just 
picturing  you  in  my  mind,  and  how  you  and  Mabel  were  with 
each  other. 

"It's  no  use  to  lie  about  it,  I  guess.  The  very  few  letters 
that  you  send  to  me  tell  me  how  worried  and  unsatisfied  you 
are.  Leonard,  I  believe  you've  got  a  very  good  woman  for  a 
wife.  It  isn't  easy  to  find  love  in  this  world  and  there  are  so 
many  different  kinds,  we  must  try  to  be  sensible  enough  to 
know  which  is  the  best  for  us. 

"Leonard,  Mabel,  from  your  description,  is  not  beautiful, 
but  don't  you  think  when  the  heart  is  good  and  unselfish  there 
is  just  as  much  beauty  in  it  as  there  is  in  some  pretty  face?" 

For  a  half  dozen  pages  she  wrote  of  how  he  must  be  more 
contented  and  appreciate  the  thin  dark  Mabel. 

For  the  first  time  he  threw  a  letter  from  his  mother 
in  the  tin  waste  basket  at  the  side  of  his  desk  without 
a  second  reading. 


CHAPTER  XII 

rilHE  next  day,  Leonard  was  called  into  New  York  on 
•••  a  bit  of  business  that  required  sitting  in  a  close, 
over-heated  office  until  late  in  the  afternoon,  discussing 
the  different  phases  of  an  offer  made  by  a  larger  and 
rival  concern,  the  Wheelland  Ornamental  Company,  to 
form  a  possible  partnership  and  have  an  aggressive  New 
York  office. 

When  he  came  out  into  Times  Square  at  five  o'clock 
he  felt  as  if  he  had  spent  just  so  much  time  in  jail.  The 
constant  haranguing  and  bickering  over  the  advantages 
to  be  gained  and  the  apportionment  of  interest,  had  bored 
him  beyond  endurance.  An  especially  trying  time  had 
been  had  with  a  man  named  Whittimore,  one  whom  he 
had  always  thought  rather  charming  in  previous  inter- 
views but  who  showed  himself  now  to  have  an  aggravating 
desire  for  definite  figures  that  left  nothing  to  chance. 

At  the  cigar  stand  of  the  Knickerbocker  Hotel  Leonard 
stopped  to  buy  a  long  panetela-shaped  cigar.  It  was 
some  satisfaction  to  get  away  from  the  money-mad  men 
and  to  have  the  dark,  round  little  woman  back  of  the 
glass  stand  say: 

"A  Bock  panetela,  as  usual,  Mr.  Vernon?" 

As  he  replied,  "Yes — Miss,"  he  wondered  what  her 
name  might  be.  For  so  many  years  she  had  waited  upon 
him,  always  with  her  pleasing  smile  and  correct  under- 
standing of  his  wants.  As  he  walked  away  he  thought 
to  himself  that  she,  too,  must  have  some  intimate  trouble 

87 


88  THE    TAKER 

that  hung  over  her  all  day.  Perhaps  a  husband,  or  a 
sweetheart  who  harassed  her.  "Guess  I'm  not  the  only 
one,"  he  thought.  "We've  all  got  our  battles." 

However,  as  Vernon  passed  through  the  lobby  toward 
the  revolving  doors,  he  gave  a  sweeping  glance  at  the 
many  women,  sitting  or  standing  about — a  glance  which 
darted  even  as  far  as  the  gold  raftered  dining-room, 
thrown  out  as  a  fisherman  casts  his  fly. 

Only  one  of  them  held  him  for  an  instant.  Though  she 
was  young  and  pretty,  her  face  had  a  look  of  experience 
and  world-wisdom  which  acted  as  a  barrier  to  further 
scrutiny. 

.  .  .  All  day  long,  the  tall  buildings  and  the  crowds 
had  conjured  old  sights  and  memories  before  him;  his 
heart  ran  over  with  homesickness  for  what  was  no  more. 
The  very  monuments  of  brick  and  stone  seemed  to 
whisper : 

"You  see,  here  you  used  to  be  happy." 

But  also  there  was  vaguely  present  in  his  mind,  the 
thought  that  now  he  had  freed  himself  from  Mabel,  and 
that  new  vistas  were  open  to  him.  It  was  as  if  the  dark 
cavern  of  his  past  enduring  had  been  opened  and  out  of 
it  had  winged  their  way  all  the  harassing  thoughts  of 
his  wasted  years.  There  really  was  a  greater  content 
brooding  in  his  being  than  he  had  known  for  a  long  time. 

Walking  up  Broadway,  with  chest  out  and  shoulders 
back,  which  made  his  grey  walking  suit  fit  unusually  well, 
he  thought  how  different  he  was  from  all  the  people  who 
passed  him,  the  actors  out  of  jobs  with  their  careless 
apparel,  the  rough-looking  men  with  weak  faces,  who 
lined  the  curbs — suddenly  he  felt  ashamed  that  he  should 
be  seen  walking  in  this  district. 

So  at  Forty-Fourth  Street,  he  turned  and  went  across 


THE    TAKER  89 

town  to  the  more  adorned  trumpery  of  Fifth  Avenue. 
"Here,"  he  thought,  "New  York  puts  on  a  varnished  mask 
over  her  harlot's  heart,  and  doesn't  betray  herself."  And 
with  his  muscles  echoing  to  the  will  of  his  mind,  he  as- 
sumed a  more  elastic,  tripping  manner  in  his  gait,  while 
with  his  cane  he  cut  the  air  every  few  steps.  As  he 
walked,  he  noticed  how  women  turned  and  gave  him  a  sec- 
ond glance.  One  with  white  spats  and  soft  blue  tailored 
suit,  smiled  at  him,  and  when  he  turned  to  look  after  her, 
he  saw  that  she  had  halted  to  examine  the  contents  of  a 
show-window.  He  was  on  the  point  of  turning  to  follow 
her  when  she  looked  up  to  see  if  he  had  noticed.  But  again 
there  was  the  look  of  experience  in  her  eyes  and  about  the 
corners  of  her  mouth,  for  all  its  veneer  of  cosmetic  arti- 
fice, played  fine,  anxious  lines  of  a  spent  youth. 

It  was  easy  to  project  into  his  mind  the  whole  routine 
of  what  would  follow.  So  he  turned  and  walked  on. 
"Poor  thing,"  he  reflected  to  himself.  "Poor  thing!" 

Reaching  Forty-seventh  Street,  he  paused  again,  unde- 
cided as  to  what  he  should  do,  wondering  if  he  should 
really  spend  his  evening  with  one  of  these  women  whose 
looks  bespoke  such  cordial  invitation  for  adventure.  Why 
shouldn't  he  after  all?  It  had  been  a  long  time,  in 
truth,  not  since  his  marriage  to  Jennie  that  he  had 
been  really  stimulated  by  a  touch  or  a  caress.  Every- 
thing spoiled  under  the  memory  of  his  home. 

But  now  he  had  rid  himself  of  a  greater  part  of  this 
foolish  allegiance.  Only  he  must  not  be  cheap  about  it. 
He  must  match  up  somewhere  near  his  own  understanding 
and  superior  manners  and  intelligence.  He  wondered  if 
there  really  were  some  one  in  this  crowd,  some  woman, 
young  and  pretty,  who  would  admire  him  and  understand 
what  a  fight  he  was  having  with  life;  what  it  meant  to 


90  THE    TAKER 

have  to  smother  every  emotion.  Some  one  perchance, 
who,  however  beautiful,  needed  him  and  who  was  not  so 
well  tutored  but  what  he  could  mould  her  and  teach  her 
his  views  of  life. 

It  would  be  good  to  find  some  one  like  that.  Then  he 
would  have  work  to  do.  That  was  what  he  really  needed. 
Some  one  he  could  build  up.  Then  he  could  come  to  New 
York  oftener,  too.  And  be  a  little  kinder  to  Mabel  at 
home.  If  he  knew  exactly  when  his  hour  of  relief  would 
come  he  could  afford  the  period  of  hypocrisy  with  her. 

Reasoning  that  this  was  the  thing  to  do,  Vernon  walked 
on,  slowly,  thinking  how  different  it  was  now  from  a 
few  years  before.  He  was  a  success  in  life.  Also  he 
had  been  using  women  in  the  wrong  way  up  to  now,  with- 
out judgment  or  foresight.  And  like  a  boomerang,  they 
had  come  back  to  him.  Now  it  must  be  different.  After 
all,  experience  was  a  good  thing  when  it  taught  a  lesson. 
And  it  was  too  late  to  grieve  about  it  anyway.  He  had 
needed  those  women.  One  paid  one's  price  for  knowledge. 
But  his  youth  had  paid  its  price.  And  time  was  too 
ghastly  a  coin  to  deal  with.  After  all,  maybe  his  failure 
was  not  his  fault.  Perhaps  it  was  simply  that  he,  being 
an  intellectual,  was  too  subtle  for  the  ordinary  woman, 
and  for  the  same  reason,  not  audacious  enough  for  the 
more  clever  ones.  Yes,  there  must  be  a  new  era  in  the 
management  of  his  life. 

He  walked  on,  thinking.  Was  he  a  success  after  all? 
Everything  was  no  more  solved  than  it  had  ever  been. 
Life — life — what  a  sad  joke.  And  so  many  grew  excited 
about  it,  too !  Really  there  was  little  hope,  little  chance 
even,  of  ever  being  truly  happy.  Unless  one  had  some 
sort  of — anaesthetic — to  dull  the  senses — and  create  lying 
illusions.  Just  posed  before  oneself.  After  all,  was  not 


THE    TAKER  91 

posing  the  only  protection  that  unhappy  people  and 
lonely  people  had  for  themselves?  But  perhaps  that 
really  was  his  trouble.  Perhaps  he  had  never  got  inside 
of  himself,  because  he  had  had  to  pose  for  himself  so 
much. 

As  Leonard  went  on  and  became  less  conscious  of  those 
passing  him,  a  feeling  of  unhappiness  stole  more  into  the 
heart,  of  his  reveries.  He  thought  of  his  mother,  so  be- 
lieving, so  simple,  so  blind  to  anything  that  was  not  virtue 
in  him. 

At  the  moment,  his  throat  actually  choked  up.  He 
thought  nearly  aloud: 

"Oh,  mother  darling,  if  you  were  only  by  me  and  could 
help  me  all  the  time " 

Yes,  he  decided,  a  man  needed  a  woman's  solace  and 
help.  Scientific  groping  about  to  stiffen  the  mind  was 
all  right,  philosophising  was  all  right,  if  one  were  already 
fixed  in  life.  But  philosophy  was  only  a  name  unhappy 
people  gave  to  their  thoughts  and  helped  little. 

He  turned  and  slowly  walked  back  toward  the 
Grand  Central  Station.  In  his  mind  was  the  idea  that 
there,  perhaps,  he  would  be  more  likely  to  run  across  an 
adventure,  some  one  disappointed  by  waiting,  some  woman 
suddenly  assailed  by  a  little  madness  in  her  heart,  as 
must  happen  some  time  or  other  to  all  women. 

At  the  corner  of  Madison  Avenue  and  Forty-second 
Street,  he  did  pass  a  woman  whose  glance  he  caught,  and 
decided  to  follow  her;  only  to  change  his  mind  for  some 
reason  that  had  to  do  with  the  way  her  skirts  lashed  her 
white  shoe-tops.  Also  she  halted  a  little  in  her  steps 
as  if  to  wait  for  him. 

So  he  kept  on  toward  the  station  while  on  his  face  be- 
came more  and  more  defined  a  peculiar  expression  of  an- 


92  THE    TAKER 

guish  and  expectancy — the  expression  that  he  discerned  in 
the  eyes  of  the  others  as  they  passed  him,  seeking  their 
mates  along  the  Avenue. 

Reaching  the  station,  he  went  down  through  the  en- 
trance and  onto  the  stone-paved  incline  to  the  great  open 
place  backed  on  the  far  side  by  the  numbered  track  en- 
trances. Stopping  at  a  news-stand,  he  bought  a  maga- 
zine with  a  multi-coloured  front  page;  a  magazine  dedi- 
cated mostly  to  women's  wearing  apparel  and  dogs  and 
the  doings  of  the  Smart  Set.  As  he  took  the  change  from 
the  man  back  at  the  counter,  he  said  to  himself:  "It's 
best  to  appear  interested  in  something." 

He  decided  to  stand  near  the  information  bureau, 
where  four  or  five  women  were  already  waiting.  A  thrill 
of  satisfaction  went  through  him  at  the  thought  that  be- 
fore him  was  an  adventure  that  might  be  just  the  thing 
he  had  been  waiting  for  so  many  years. 

One  of  the  young  women  in  particular  attracted  him. 
She  could  not  have  been  more  than  twenty-two  or  twenty- 
three  years  old.  He 'saw,  too,  as  he  came  closer  to  her, 
that  her  slender  figure  was  just  a  bit  too  flashily  dressed. 

That  she  was  tired  of  waiting,  however,  was  very  ap- 
parent from  the  way  her  eyes  sought  the  different  en- 
trances and  then  the  clock  over  her  head.  When  Leonard 
took  his  stand  quite  close  to  her  he  perceived  with  some 
satisfaction  that  her  glance  took  him  in  too.  Then  the 
charm  of  a  possible  acquaintance  with  her  was  somewhat 
dulled  when  he  made  out  two  well-defined  splashes  of 
rouge  on  her  cheeks  and  a  perfection  to  her  brows  that 
were  no  benevolent  adornments  of  nature. 

Now,  he  thought :  "Well,  beggars  mustn't  be  choosers," 
and  decided  that  conquest  with  her  might  even  be  easier 
than  with  some  one  more  refined.  The  main  thing  was 


THE    TAKER  93 

to  make  her  understand  that  this  good-looking  man  be- 
side her  was  also  tired  of  waiting. 

For  five  minutes  he  tried  to  seem  interested  in  what 
really  was  a  page  of  dog  advertisements,  when  a  sudden 
impulse  compelled  him  to  look  up.  He  found  that  she  was 
observing  him.  Allowing  a  smile  to  spread  over  his  face, 
he  folded  the  magazine  as  if  preparing  to  depart. 

There  was  a  faint,  but  discernible  irritation  about 
her  lips  and  eyes. 

It  was  a  little  disappointing  that  she  should  be  con- 
quered so  easily,  but  it  was  too  late  to  retrace  the  step. 
He  lifted  his  hat  and  said  cordially:  "It's  stupid,  isn't 
it,  waiting?" 

"Yes,  quite,"  she  answered.  Her  smile  was  rather  at- 
tractive. 

He  wondered  what  he  should  say  next.  Presumptuous- 
ness  might  anger  her,  yet  hesitancy  could  be  even  a 
greater  blunder. 

"I — I  expected  some  one  on  the  6:10  from  Albany.  I 
guess  they  are  not  going  to  show  up." 

His  next  step  was  even  more  difficult,  for  she  only 
grinned  at  him  in  her  knowing  way,  without  a  reply. 

He  went  on: 

"I  wonder  when  the  next  Albany  train  gets  in?" 

Still  she  smiled  in  her  really  aggravating  manner. 
"Why  don't  you  ask  the  Information  Bureau?"  she  at 
last  suggested. 

"That's  right,"  he  said,  and  turned  to  the  man  who 
was  answering  the  questions  of  a  little  woman  with  a 
baby  in  her  arms  and  another  dragging  at  her  skirt. 

Authoritatively  he  questioned:  "Will  you  tell  me  the 
time  of  the  next  Albany  train?" 


94  THE    TAKER 

The  man  looked  at  him.  "In  or  out?"  after  he  finished 
with  the  little  woman. 

Vernon  saw  a  broad  smile  cover  the  face  of  the  girl 
at  his  side.  He  looked  at  the  officious  questioner  back 
of  the  counter.  "Why,  in,"  he  managed.  The  thought 
struck  him  that  he  was  not  conducting  this  affair  in  the 
right  way.  He  should  have  gone  up  to  her  at  the  very 
first  smile,  and  said:  "I'm  tired  of  waiting,  so  are  you. 
Let's — merge  our  disappointment  and  go  to  dinner." 
Yes,  perhaps  it  was  not  too  late,  yet. 

He  turned  to  her,  and  with  a  laugh  said:  "What's  the 
use  of  waiting?  Let's  go  over  to  the  Belmont  and  get 
a — something  to  eat." 

As  they  walked  across  the  street  she  said  to  him,  quite 
to  his  surprise,  "You  know,  as  we  stood  there  I  was 
wondering  how  long  it  would  be  before  you  asked  me  to 
do  just  this.  You  men  are  so  funny." 

"You  knew  I  was  going  to  ask  you?"  he  questioned. 

"Sure  I  did." 

Vernon  looked  at  her.  "Weren't  you  waiting  for  some 
one?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Who?" 

Now  she  laughed  outright.     "Why,  you,  silly  boy!" 

A  wave  of  regret  encompassed  him.  He  had  planned 
such  a  romantic  and  charming  adventure. 

After  checking  his  light  grey  coat,  cane,  gloves  and 
hat  at  the  crude  rack,  which  he  did  slowly  and  method- 
ically as  if  to  show  the  girl  he  was  unaffected  by  this  sort 
of  adventure,  he  erectly  led  the  way  into  the  low  ceiled 
grillroom  of  the  hotel.  Following  the  headwaiter,  they 
sat  down  at  a  side  table,  halfway  down  the  room. 

At  the  side  of  her  chair  a  window  was  open  and  for 


THE    TAKER  95 

another  moment  he  was  occupied  in  directing  the  waiter 
to  close  it. 

"All  the  dirt  from  the  street  blows  in,"  he  said  solici- 
tously. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind." 

Her  voice  was  not  lacking  in  charm  and  he  resumed  his 
place  somewhat  reassured. 

Then  he  glanced  at  the  amber-coloured  light  on  the 
table  and  was  on  the  point  of  turning  it  out,  with  an 
excuse  that  it  was  too  strong  for  his  eyes,  when  he  saw 
that  the  glow  really  softened  the  hard  lines  of  her  painted 
cheeks.  Vernon  noticed  that  she  looked  rather  attractive. 

He  gave  an  order  to  the  waiter  and  very  soon  a  large 
tray  with  hors  d'osuvres  was  placed  between  them. 

Vernon  exclaimed:  "I'm  really  hungry,  aren't  you?" 
And  the  girl  replied  with  a  little  laugh: 

"Sure,  I  am.     Let's  order  a  drink." 

Vernon  looked  at  her.  Quite  on  the  point  of  moralising 
about  the  effect  of  liquor  on  young  women,  he  checked 
himself,  and  instead,  quickly  entered  into  her  mood. 

"What's  the  matter  with  me?"  he  exclaimed.  "Waiter! 
Waiter !" 

At  her  direction,  two  pinkish  drinks,  covered  with  a 
foamy  cream,  were  brought  in.  Then  another  waiter 
poured  out  a  rich,  heavy  soup. 

Without  apparent  thought  of  whom  the  other  might  be, 
they  began  to  talk  of  current  gossip;  a  story  which  was 
adorning  the  front  page  of  all  the  newspapers;  about  a 
society  woman  who  had  married  a  policeman ;  the  new 
show  at  the  Winter  Garden.  Vernon  entered  into  the 
conversation  in  his  best  manner,  telling  himself  it  would 
do  no  harm  to  let  her  know  he  was  different  from  the 
ordinary  business  man.  Also  there  sprang  into  his  mind 


96  THE    TAKER 

the  idea  which  he  soon  worded,  that  they  visit  the  music 
hall.  He  added :  "I'm  so  busy  that  I  haven't  been  able 
to  see  the  new  show  yet." 

He  spoke  in  a  casual  way,  as  though  it  were  his  custom 
to  visit  all  the  theatres. 

The  young  woman  confessed  that  she  had  one  or  two 
friends  who  were  connected  with  the  theatre,  and  that  she 
had  seen  the  new  show  at  least  a  half  dozen  times.  And 
Vernon,  toying  with  his  fork,  and  drawing  criss-cross 
lines  on  the  white  table  cloth,  suddenly  looked  up  and 
said:  "I  haven't  been  going  out  as  much  as  I  wanted  to, 
lately.  A  man's  a  fool  to  get  wrapped  up — in  his  busi- 
ness, isn't  he?" 

After  a  moment  the  girl  replied,  with  an  apparent 
effort  to  match  his  mood:  "Yes,  you  bet,  you  only  live 
once." 

The  roast  beef  they  had  ordered  was  being  placed  on 
the  table  when  the  head  waiter  approached  Vernon,  and, 
in  a  whispered  voice,  suggested  a  nice  light  wine,  and 
handed  him  a  wine-list,  at  the  top  of  which  stood  in 
large  letters  CHAMPAGNES. 

"I  suggest  No.  123,"  said  the  man,  "if  the  lady  doesn't 
mind  a  dry  wine." 

He  looked  at  the  young  woman,  who  glanced  at  Vernon 
in  rather  bored  fashion  and  said,  casually:  "Why,  I 
think  you'd  like  the  No.  130  better.  It's  Pommery." 

Vernon  gave  the  order  and  in  an  amazingly  short  time 
their  glasses  were  being  filled  by  the  head  waiter's 
assistant. 

"This  is  really  a  delicious  wine,"  exclaimed  Vernon, 
and  they  drank  slowly,  sipping  their  glasses  and  looking 
into  each  other's  eyes  in  a  silent  toast.  For  the  first 


THE    TAKER  97 

time  he  was  really  conscious  of  the  dreamy  strumming 
from  a  hidden  orchestra. 

Vernon  went  on:  "You  know  I've  been  in  a  rut  for 
an  awfully  long  time.  It's  good  for  me  to  get  out  like 
this  now  and  then."  He  told  her  this  rather  earnestly. 

She  replied,  a  little  quizzically,  "You  are  married, 
aren't  you?" 

He  took  another  gulp  of  wine,  and  then  murmured  with 
an  air  of  reflection:  "Yes,  a  little  too  much  married." 

Somewhat  disdainfully,  but  with  a  decided  tone  she 
remarked:  "Well,  all  the  fools  aren't  dead  yet." 

A  little  put  out  by  her  lack  of  sympathy,  Vernon  called 
the  waiter  to  refill  his  empty  glass.  This  he  drank  in 
almost  a  swallow. 

Then  both  began  to  eat  and  the  conversation  lagged. 
Once  he  looked  up,  and  said:  "You  know,  it's  too  bad 
about  little  episodes  like  this.  We  can't  appreciate  them 
until  we  have  the  next  one.  Then  it's  too  late."  He 
added  sadly,  "Life  is  like  that,  I  guess." 

She  waited  until  he  was  sipping  at  his  third  glass  of 
wine  before  she  ventured :  "Yes,  when  they  come  so  few." 

"Do  you  have  many?" 

She  waited  until  some  effect  showed  itself  from  his 
last  drink  before  she  dared:  "Now,  don't  be  a  fool." 

Vernon  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  studied  her.  His 
face  had  grown  quite  red  and  his  forehead  was  damp 
with  perspiration,  which  he  mopped  with  a  blue-bordered 
silk  handkerchief,  now  and  then. 

"You're  a  wise  little  girl,  aren't  you?"  he  exclaimed. 

Ice  cream  was  placed  on  the  table  and  then  two  small 
cups  of  black  coffee.  As  Vernon  lifted  the  little  cup 
the  while  he  waited  for  her  reply,  his  hand  trembled  visibly. 

Finally  she  answered:  "I've  got  to  be."     Opening  her 


98  THE    TAKER 

purse  she  took  out  a  cigarette.  "Everybody  is  not  as 
easy  as  you  are." 

Vernon  leaned  across  the  table  and  took  hold  of  her 
hand  rather  f renziedly :  "Am  I  easy,  little  girl  ?" 

"Oh,  sure — you  are — up  to  now." 

It  was  exasperating  to  have  her  command  the  situation 
with  so  much  calm  scrutiny  of  him.  Thinking  that  they 
would  never  get  better  acquainted  as  long  as  they  talked 
so  impersonally,  he  said: 

"I  hate  to  see  a  beautiful  little  girl  like  you,  ready  to 
be  trampled  down  by  the  first  big  steam  roller  that  comes 
along.  No  woman  can  look  out  for  herself.  She  needs 
some  man — to  watch  out  for  her  and  take  care  of  her." 
As  he  said  this  she  laughed  outright  and  then  proceeded 
to  take  a  little  white  powder  puff  from  her  pocketbook. 
Powdering  the  tip  of  her  nose  the  reflection  of  which  she 
peered  at  in  a  small  silk  backed  mirror,  she  exclaimed, 
"You  poor,  poor  thing,"  the  while  Vernon  fought  back 
the  sudden  understanding  that  it  would  be  indeed  difficult 
to  train  her  into  manners  refined  enough  to  accompany 
him  about  the  restaurants  and  hotels. 

She  seemed  even  a  little  disgusted  with  the  look  of 
affection  and  endearment  that  had  come  into  his  eyes. 
Drawing  her  hand  away  from  his  clammy  fingers  which 
again  had  sought  hers,  she  said:  "And  I  suppose  you 
want  to  be  that  man,  don't  you?  Why,  if  you've  got  a 
wife,"  apparently  observing  the  effect  of  her  words,  "you 
had  better  go  back  to  her  and  consider  yourself  lucky." 

Vernon  was  aroused  by  this  unexpected  turn  in  his 
love  seeking.  He  was  thinking  how  stupid  of  him  it  was 
to  allow  this  little  painted  creature  to  assail  him;  though 
he  solaced  himself  as  he  had  often  done  when  meeting 
some  one  who  showed  they  didn't  care  for  him.  by  think- 


THE    TAKER  99 

ing  she  was  trying  to  be  elusive  and  clever  with  him 
so  as  to  attract  him  the  more. 

Reaching  into  his  pocket  he  took  out  a  small  leather 
case.  From  it  he  drew  a  bill  and  crumpling  it,  tossed  it 
across  the  table  to  her,  saying:  "There's  five  dollars. 
I  guess  you'd  better  go." 

Laughing  derisively,  the  girl  took  the  crumpled  bill 
and  thrust  it  into  the  small  bag  lying  beside  her  on  the 
table,  then  rose  from  the  table.  "You  are  very  kind," 
she  said,  in  a  mock  effect  at  humility;  "only  next  time, 
don't  try  to  do  the  big  brother  stunt.  It's  old  stuff." 

Vernon  watched  her  as  she  walked  pertly  through  the 
swinging  doors  and  up  the  few  steps  to  the  sidewalk. 
The  last  glimpse  he  had  was  of  two  well-formed,  silk- 
stockinged  ankles. 

He  began  to  reflect.  What  a  pity  it  was  that  he  could 
not  have  taken  just  such  a  girl  as  that  and  moulded  her 
to  his  own  ideas.  It  wouldn't  have  been  such  a  difficult 
process  to  make  her  a  really  charming  creature.  She  was 
not  doll-like,  or  stupidly  pretty,  and  not  so  old  in  this 
worldly  business  that  the  trading  had  left  its  mark. 
1  It  was  a  real  disappointment,  with  an  after  thought 
that,  strangely,  she  had  not  appreciated  him  like  most 
other  women. 

It  was  after  some  little  time  of  this  self-interrogation 
that  Vernon  decided  this  sudden  demise  to  his  pleasure 
seeking  was  really  his  own  fault.  He  had  been  held 
down  so  long  by  the  ties  of  his  marriage  to  Mabel  and 
the  business,  that  he  had  lost  that  manner  of  worldli- 
ness  which  is  attractive  to  women. 

As  he  sat  lost  in  thought  his  eyes  rested  on  the  bill 
in  front  of  him  with  some  figures  in  blue  pencil  at  the 
bottom  of  a  long  column.  And  it  came  to  him  how 


100  THE    TAKER 

stupid  it  was  to  try  to  buy  real  affection,  which  could 
come  only  through  the  communion  of  spirits.  He  had 
made  a  mistake,  he  saw,  but  reflected  that  this  must  not 
discourage  him.  Some  one,  somewhere,  must  be  waiting 
for  him  and  seeking  as  he  was  seeking.  As  he  fingered 
the  cardboard  reminder  of  his  meal,  a  fusillade  of 
thoughts  shot  through  him.  What  a  horrible  scheme  it 
was  that  society  had  forced  upon  life.  One  was  at  the 
mercy  of  chance.  Was  he  going  to  be  buffeted  about 
through  the  years?  He  was  nearly  forty  now.  4<Why, 
I'll  be  an  old  man  in  five  years,"  he  found  himself  repeat- 
ing aloud. 

And  then  the  factory,  too.  Whj,  it  was  getting  so 
that  he  was  held  accountable  for  the  success  of  his  busi- 
ness by  the  very  workmen  he  hired.  That  was  one  of 
the  biggest  jokes  of  all. 

The  sound  of  his  own  voice  startled  him  and  he  glanced 
around  nervously.  Calling  the  waiter  he  then  paid  his 
check  and  after  his  glass  had  been  refilled  and  its  con- 
tents gulped  down,  he  rose  and  stalked  from  the  room. 

A  little  dizzy  from  the  wine,  Leonard  brushed  shoulders 
with  a  man  coming  in,  and  the  man  flung  an  angry  retort 
after  him  which  he  heard  only  vaguely. 

Stopping  at  the  head  of  the  stairs  for  a  moment,  he 
glanced  down  the  hall  to  the  dining  room  where  people 
were  sitting  at  rows  of  white  covered  tables.  Just  the 
faintest  murmur  of  the  orchestra  caught  his  ears  and 
held  him  by  its  soft  strains. 

When  the  musicians  stopped  he  walked  across  the  lobby 
and  down  the  steps  of  the  grill  to  the  front  of  the  bar 
where  he  ordered  a  pint  of  wine  from  the  bartender. 
And  when  it  was  served,  he  drank  it  as  if  it  had  been  some 
adversary  that  he  must  conquer.  There  was  a  table 


THE    TAKER  101 

near  by  and  much  more  tispy  than  he  had  been,  he  made 
his  way  over  to  it  and  sat  down.  He  began  to  reflect: 
Why  did  all  these  men  sitting  around  look  so  prosperous 
and  happy  ?  Why  was  it  they  were  so  gay  about  life  ? 

One  man  in  particular  he  noticed,  a  man  quite  his 
own  age,  who  was  talking  animatedly  to  a  companion. 
He  had  clear  eyes  and  pink  soft  skin  like  a  child's.  Ver- 
non  could  just  catch  the  words:  "I'm  the  happiest  man 
alive.  You  know  that  makes  our  third  one.  The  other 
two  are  girls."  He  was  talking  about  his  family.  Per- 
haps that  was  the  secret  of  it  after  all.  Just  to  have 
a  wife  and  children  and  come  home  at  night  and  have 
their  arms  around  your  neck  and  be  called  "Daddy." 

With  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  stranger,  Vernon  thought  on, 
angrily  aroused  against  the  combinations  in  his  life  that 
seemed  always  to  work  against  him.  "Why  is  it  so 
hard,"  he  questioned  nearly  aloud,  "for  me  to  be  happy?'* 
He  began  tearing  to  bits  a  printed  menu  that  lay  on  the 
table.  "Haven't  I  just  as  much  right  to  happiness  as 
the  next  one?  Why  is  every  thing  always  set  against  me?" 

The  sound  of  his  own  voice  made  Vernon  shudder. 
He  glanced  at  the  men  at  the  next  table,  but  they  were 
immersed  in  their  conversation.  Suddenly  the  room  be- 
came very  hot.  He  took  his  hat  and  plunged  up  the 
steps  to  the  street. 

Here  there  was  a  hurrying  crowd,  people  rushing  to 
the  theatre,  and  to  and  from  their  trains.  Some  were 
going  home.  Tall  buildings,  like  so  many  towers  of 
Babel,  stretched  up  into  the  night's  blackness,  while 
lighted  areas  here  and  there  in  the  black  mass  told  of 
some  office  clerk  working  overtime.  It  made  him  feel 
that  they  were  signals  of  distress  flashed  from  some  com- 
panion sufferer. 


102  THE    TAKER 

Then  he  noticed  a  young  fellow  in  a  light  grey  suit  and 
new  tan  shoes,  running  toward  the  station  entrance  with 
a  great  basket  of  fruit  under  his  arm.  Probably  hurry- 
ing to  some  young  wife  who  would  meet  him  with  open 
arms. 

Vernon  mopped  his  hot  head  as  he  thought:  "Good 
God,  just  to  have  some  one  waiting  for  you  like  that." 
He  wondered  what  Mabel  was  doing.  Probably  she  was 
waiting  for  him.  Yes,  she  really  must  be.  She  always 
was  waiting  for  him,  like  a  dog  waiting  for  its  master. 

That  was  the  main  trouble  with  her. 

A  strange  doubt  assailed  him.  A  doubt  of  himself. 
He  had  been  making  Mabel  unhappy  and  finding  many 
reasons  to  justify  himself  in  doing  so  and  now  he  was 
suddenly  stumbling  over  the  fact  that  he  might  be  throw- 
ing away  something  which  he  ought  to  keep,  and  was 
lucky  to  have. 

Never  before  had  he  felt  so  lonely.  None  of  the 
passersby  in  their  mad  hurry  to  some  waiting  one  stopped 
to  notice  him. 

Passing  a  cafe,  he  saw  his  face  reflected  in  a  mirrored 
sign.  For  a  moment  he  was  stifled,  meeting  himself  like 
that.  He  saw  how  enormous  his  eyes  were,  how  unnatu- 
rally pale  was  his  face.  The  merciless  light  of  an  over- 
head sign  threw  a  strange  shadowy  glare  under  his  eyes 
and  cheeks.  His  face  looked  hollowed  out,  hard,  wolfish, 
pasty.  And  the  thought  hit  him  that  if  he  should  sud- 
denly be  laid  low  in  that  crowd  no  one  would  know  him  or 
even  care  about  him.  He  had  a  nervous  heart.  The  in- 
surance doctor  had  told  him  that  not  so  long  ago.  For 
a  flashing  moment  he  saw  himself  lying  unconscious  on 
the  pavement — with  the  crowd  around  him. 

And  a  policeman  hunting  for  some  identification. 


THE    TAKER  103 

Mabel  was  probably  in  the  library,  reading  some  book 
in  her  quiet  way,  and  looking  up  at  the  clock  every  once 
in  a  while.  Or,  perhaps,  she  had  gone  to  bed  already 
and  was  lying  awake  worrying  about  him.  Across  his 
mind  came  a  picture  of  the  way  she  had  taken  him  to 
the  door  that  morning,  and  said:  "Dear,  do  be  careful 
to-day." 

The  illuminated  clock  on  the  fa£ade  of  the  station 
showed  nine-fourteen.  There  was  a  train  at  nine-fifteen. 
He  might  make  it  if  he  ran.  Mabel  would  be  sitting  in 
the  chair  by  the  reading  table.  She  would  be  so  happy 
when  he  came  in.  And  it  wouldn't  hurt  him  to  sit  and 
talk  to  her  a  little  while. 

So  he  ran  across  the  street  and  into  the  station  and 
was  the  last  passenger  on  the  train.  He  had  a  real  fright 
when  his  foot  slipped  as  he  hurriedly  jumped  into  the 
moving  coach. 

All  the  way  up  to  Hastings  he  slept  soundly.  It  was 
an  accommodation  train  and  took  much  longer  than- 
usual,  so  that  by  the  time  he  got  off  and  walked  through 
the  crisp  night  air  to  his  home,  the  ill-effects  of  his 
drinking  had  worn  off;  though  when  he  unlocked  the 
door  and  entered  the  dark  vestibule,  he  regretted  a  little 
that  he  had  come,  wondering  why  he  had  not  stayed  in 
town  and  gone  to  a  show. 

The  lights  were  turned  out  in  the  library  and  he 
mounted  the  steps  towards  Mabel's  room,  deciding  to  go 
in  and  greet  her  and  talk  a  little. 

Mabel's  door  was  closed  and  he  opened  it  gently. 

When  he  went  in,  his  wife  lay  asleep,  with  the  electric 
bedside  lamp  shining  directly  on  her  face.  Near  her 
hand  was  a  crumpled  handkerchief  and  he  noticed  how 
damp  it  was.  He  looked  down  at  her  pale  and  drawn  face. 


104  THE    TAKER 

He  noticed  how  high  her  cheekbones  were  and  in  what 
deep  recesses  her  small  eyes  were  placed.  She  really 
looked  like  an  old  woman  with  her  hair  drawn  back  from 
her  forehead,  and  her  thin  arms  protruding  from  the  lacy 
short-sleeved  nightgown.  The  thought  struck  him  as 
he  gazed  onto  the  bed  that  the  soft  pattern  was  worthy 
of  a  better  tenant. 

Then  he  turned  and  went  out  of  the  room  again,  and 
into  his  own.  Slinging  his  hat  and  coat  into  a  chair, 
he  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  For  a  long  time 
he  sat  thinking,  before  he  bent  over  and  began  unlacing 
his  shoes. 

He  kept  saying  to  himself:  "What  a  fool  I  am." 

And  back  of  that  thought  was  another: 

He  must  get  away  from  Mabel. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

AMONG  his  fellow  workers  young  Lester  Moore,  the 
boor  at  home,  the  selfish,  brutish  churl,  was  some- 
what of  a  leader.  He  was  always  friendly  with  them, 
and  took  the  initiative  in  their  evening  meetings.  He 
liked  to  be  a  big  man  at  the  smoke-laden  meeting  of 
the  Lead  Workers'  Union  No.  55,  held  every  Friday  night 
over  the  Miller  Grocery  Store,  on  Walnut  Street. 

He  had  ideas  about  common  rights  and  drove  them 
home  with  sincere  purpose  and  though  his  ideas  bore  no 
greater  intelligence  than  came  from  the  mouths  of  the 
more  modest  members,  he  still  had  a  virility  and  nerve 
back  of  his  words  that  gave  his  thoughts  forcible  deliver- 
ance. 

It  was  all  the  more  startling  then,  considering  his  posi- 
tion at  the  factory,  when  he  heard  one  day  that  he 
was  actually  among  those  included  in  a  general  lay-o-T 
brought  on  by  some  merger  with  a  New  York  firm. 

That  night  over  fifty  men  met  at  the  hall  to  discuss  the 
situation.  In  and  out  among  them  floated  various 
rumours;  Vernon  was  in  a  bad  way,  he  had  lost  a  big 
contract,  he  was  being  swallowed  up  by  a  big  city  cor- 
poration, he  was  away  from  the  factory  over  half  the  time 
and  had  neglected  his  business.  Other  words  were  whis- 
pered about  his  domestic  affairs — he  was  unhappy  at 
home. 

In  one  corner  Moore  met  Neil,  who  had  just  come  out 
of  a  flaming  denunciation  of  his  employer. 

105 


106  THE    TAKER 

"Hello,"  said  Moore  to  the  temper-shaken  old  man. 

"Hello!  Hello!"  Neil  grumbled,  and  then  launched 
forth  into  the  hanging  ends  of  his  tirade.  "So  he's  done 
it,  and  you  too,  eh,  boy.  We  ought  to  kill  him,  the  low 
dog." 

At  the  further  end  of  the  hall  a  young  fellow  with 
black  hair  and  a  blazing  red  necktie,  named  Jim  Sylvester, 
got  up  and  began  speaking.  His  voice  came  through  the 
tobacco  smoke,  sharp  and  cutting.  Neil  stopped  talking, 
and  with  every  one  else  began  to  listen  attentively. 
Every  now  and  again,  as  some  remark  stood  out  and 
brought  a  few  cheers,  he  shouted:  "You're  right,  you're 
right,"  ending  up  with  some  wild  curse. 

Lester,  too,  was  held  for  a  moment.  Then  he  took 
the  old  man's  arm.  "Now,  what's  the  use  of  going  crazy 
over  this  thing,"  he  said ;  "what  are  we  going  to  do  about 
it?  We're  laid  off.  That's  all  there  is  to  it,  see."  It 
bothered  him  that  every  one  should  hang  so  approvingly 
on  to  the  words  of  the  speaker. 

The  meeting  broke  up  early,  without  anything  definite 
being  accomplished,  although  for  some  time  after,  they 
stood  around  in  sympathetic  groups,  talking  and  plan- 
ning, little  eddies  on  the  surface  of  unsounded  depths. 
Once  in  a  while  some  voice  would  rise  above  the  others 
and  gain  the  attention  of  another  group  and  then  both 
groups  would  join  and  listen  together. 

All  the  talk  was  centred  on  Vernon. 

Full  blame  was  put  upon  his  shoulders.  "He  should 
have  managed  better."  "He  didn't  attend  to  business." 
"His  wife  could  have  run  things  better  than  he  did." 
"Too  fond  of  goin'  to  New  York." 

As  Lester  stood  listening,  he  looked  about  him.  On 
all  sides  he  saw  men  standing  silent,  with  their  heads 


THE    TAKER  107 

strained  to  catch  every  word.  Now  and  then  he  could 
see  them  turn  to  each  other  in  affirmation  of  the  speaker's 
argument.  He  saw  how  red  their  faces  were  with  anger 
and  excitement.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  they  were 
apart  from  him,  that  they  had  left  him  out  of  the  general 
discussion.  He  wondered  why  he  had  lost  his  power  over 
them,  or  if  he  really  had.  Why  couldn't  he  think  of 
something  to  say,  something  that  would  make  them  turn 
and  listen  to  him? 

But  somehow  he  could  think  of  nothing  else  but  his 
own  plans,  his  own  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  And  as 
this  thought  struck  him,  he  looked  around  feeling  even 
more  weak  and  guilty,  as  if  he  were  cheating  the  men. 

Noticing  that  Neil  was  still  at  his  side,  he  turned  to 
him,  at  just  about  the  moment  a  great  scheme  had 
wormed  its  way  into  his  mind,  an  idea  that  so  pleased 
him,  he  hated  to  part  with  it  at  once.  Taking  Neil's 
arm  he  said,  under  his  breath : 

"Let's  get  out  of  here,"  and  then,  "Listen  to  me.  I 
want  to  know  if  they've  got  anything  on  him.  Forget 
your  own  troubles — something  has  just  come  to  me. 

Neil  looked  into  the  boy's  eyes.    "What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well" — Lester  ran  the  idea  over  in  his  mind  before 
he  went  on,  "I  mean — about  these  New  York  trips.  Do 
you  think  he's  got  himself  in  trouble?  Does  he  go  around 
much  in  the  city,  do  you  think — gambling,  women  and  that 
business  ?" 

Neil  broke  into  a  laugh.  "Sure,  he  does.  He  always 
did.  But  now  he's  so  rich  you  can't  get  a  line  on  him." 

The  boy  thought  a  moment.  "Let's  go  home,"  he 
said ;  "I've  got  a  lot  I've  got  to  think  about." 

Marcy  was  in  bed  when  he  entered  the  green  shingled 
cottage  and  the  lights  were  out.  Without  much  care 


108  THE    TAKER 

for  noise,  he  went  into  the  bedroom,  and  looked  at  her 
sleeping  face,  intending  to  arouse  her  and  tell  what  was 
in  his  mind. 

He  called  her  once,  and  then,  as  she  did  not  awaken,  he 
decided  to  wait  till  morning. 

"It  can  wait,"  he  thought.  "It'll  keep."  But  it  was 
a  great  plan  he  had  in  mind. 

It  was  an  hour,  however,  before  he  could  close  his 
eyes  in  the  least  semblance  of  sleep.  And  as  he  lay 
awake  he  thought  again  how  exciting  and  disappointing 
the  day  had  been.  The  crowd  had  not  listened  to  him 
as  they  always  did.  Instead,  it  seemed  as  if,  in  losing 
his  position,  there  had  gone  along  with  it,  his  position 
among  the  men.  It  made  him  hate  Vernon  more  than 
ever. 

Marcy  was  sleeping  soundly  at  his  side,  and  somehow 
he  could  not  help  turning  and  studying  her  and  thinking 
that  his  plan  was  the  first  opportunity  he  had  ever  had 
of  evening  up  with  her  for  having  married  him. 

It  was  mighty  lucky,  he  reflected,  that  he  had  struck 
upon  this  way  out  of  his  difficulties.  And  it  would  be 
safe,  too.  If  his  plan  worked  out,  he  would  be  able 
to  laugh  at  the  others.  It  would  be  a  good  return  for 
their  having  ignored  him.  He  breathed  deeply  as  he 
thought  on.  And  what  a  great  joke  it  would  be  on  Ver- 
non, the  man  who  wouldn't  even  shake  hands  with  any 
of  his  employees.  If  he  worked  out  his  scheme  ...  a 
hot  whirlwind  of  selfish  ambition  rushed  through  his  senses 
...  he  would  be  safe,  too.  And  beyond  that,  there 
loomed  a  vista  of  even  greater  security.  If  only  he  did 
not  lose  his  nerve.  And  his  plans  worked  out. 

The  next  morning  at  the  breakfast  table,  he  said  to 
Marcy : 


THE    TAKER  109 

"Marcy,  I  want  you  to  see  Mr.  Vernon  to-day.  I  want 
you  to  get  a  job.  You  can  do  it.  Take  anything  he'll 
give  you."  His  voice  was  unusually  kind.  "And  fix 
yourself  up  in  your  best.  Don't  wear  that  long  blue 
dress.  Wear  something  shorter.  I  want  him  to  see  how 
pretty  you  are." 

Her  protest  was  smothered  by  him. 

"I  mean  what  I  say,"  he  said,  a  little  harder.  "Do 
you  hear  me?  I  mean  it.  And  after  he  hires  you,  I  want 
you  to  sort  of  let  him  know  whose  wife  you  are,  too — and 
that  he's  laid  me  off." 

Now,  she  was  genuinely  surprised.  "Lester,  he's  lay- 
ing you  off?" 

He  looked  silently  ahead.  "Yes,  he's  laying  me  off 
with  a  bunch  of  others." 

"Oh,  that's  awful,  Lester.  What  will  we  do?  We 
haven't  got  anything  saved  up,  have  we?" 

Lester  walked  over  and  patted  her  cheeks.  "I  knew 
you'd  see  it,  Marcy,  old  girl,"  he  said.  "That's  the 
reason  I  want  you  to  see  Mr.  Vernon,  and  have  him  like 
you — a  little.  It  might  help  a  whole  lot." 

When  he  saw  her  hesitating  the  boy  went  on,  telling 
himself  that  she  must  not  have  too  much  time  to  think 
about  it.  So  he  hurriedly  told  her  how  much  depended 
on  her,  and  how  happy  they  would  be  once  they  got  on 
their  feet.  He  was  really  kind  to  her  for  the  first  time 
in  months.  He  gently  touched  her  little  hands  and  looked 
into  her  violet  eyes  as  he  talked. 

And  all  the  fearsome  things  Marcy  had  heard  about 
Vernon's  mastery  over  those  who  came  near  him,  flew 
away  on  the  wings  of  her  husband's  happy  voice. 

It  meant  a  lot  to  have  some  one  kind  to  her  like  that, 
and  to  be  able  to  do  something  for  him.  Also  she 


110  THE    TAKER 

thought,  how  wonderful  it  would  be  to  just  see  Mr. 
Vernon  and  talk  to  him.  Then,  if  she  pleased  Lester,  she 
could  always  keep  him  affectionate  and  nice  to  her.  And 
that  was  nicer  than  having  him  always  so  gruff  and 
mean. 

So  she  said,  smiling  at  him  cosily:  "Shall  I  wear  that 
dress  I  married  in,  Lester?" 

Eying  her  shrewdly,  he  answered:  "You  got  the  right 
idea,  old  pal." 

And  for  the  first  time  in  many  months  Marcy  felt  gay 
and  kind  toward  her  husband,  as  one  feels  who  has  spent 
days  in  fog  and  suddenly  comes  into  sunshine.  She  was 
even  playful  and  paraded  about  in  front  of  him  with 
graces  he  had  never  before  seen  in  her — saying,  as  she 
swept  before  him,  "Now  look  at  me.  Won't  you  be 
jealous!  I'll  be  so  grand." 

Moore  sat  back  and  laughed,  thinking  as  he  watched 
her:  "Poor  kid — poor  kid." 

He  was  somehow  sorry  for  her. 

She  noticed  this  and  came  to  his  side,  pouting:  "Well, 
don't  you  want  me  to,  Lester?" 

"Why,  of  course,  Marcy.  Ain't  I  the  one  that's  beg- 
ging you  to  do  it?" 

Coming  close  to  him,  she  took  his  face  in  both  her  little 
hands  and  studied  him,  as  if  to  search  for  some  possible 
thought  smirking  behind  his  eyes  that  would  give  the  lie  to 
the  words  which  had  made  her  so  happy ;  murmuring  the 
while:  "Oh,  Lester,  you've  all  said  so  much — such  awful 
things  about  Mr.  Vernon.  I'm  afraid." 

Her  smooth,  round  arm  was  touching  his  own,  her  vel- 
vety pouting  lips  were  close  to  his,  and  an  instant's  ema- 
nation of  selfishness  that  he  could  hardly  control,  shot 
through  the  boy.  But  he  fought  past  it  in  a  moment,  and 


THE    TAKER  111 

when  he  replied:  "Why,  Marcy,  you  needn't  be  afraid — 
why,  he'll  just  fall  over  himself  to  be  nice  to  you,  if 
he  ever  sees  you,"  he  felt  that  he  was  surer  of  himself 
than  ever.  "Sure,  he'll  be  nice  to  you,"  he  said  again, 
daring  to  touch  her  sleeve,  the  while  he  reasoned  how 
foolish  it  would  be  not  to  follow  out  his  plan.  And 
when  he  petted  her  hand  affectionately,  Marcy  felt  satis- 
fied. 

After  all,  it  was  nice  of  him,  and  unselfish,  she  thought, 
to  let  her  go  to  Vernon. 

For  a  moment  they  stood  silently,  and  Marcy  realized 
it  was  the  first  time  in  weeks  they  had  been  so  close  to  each 
other.  In  that  instant  it  struck  her  that  now  might  be  a 
good  time  to  make  Lester  see  how  he  had  neglected  and 
mistreated  her. 

So  she  said  suddenly  with  an  effort  to  make  her  remark 
casual,  as  if  it  were  only  at  this  moment  that  she  had 
thought  of  it,  "Oh,  Lester,  I  wish  you'd  be  nicer  to  me." 
She  reached  her  hand  up  to  his  face.  Why  shouldn't  she 
let  him  know  how  unhappy  she  was?  "You  know  I  think 
a  lot — about  you  and  me." 

"You  do?"  he  questioned. 

Now  that  she  had  given  in,  there  remained  nothing  fur- 
ther to  do.  But  as  a  sudden  dejection  spread  over  her 
face  he  thought  it  best  to  humour  her.  She  seemed  so 
harmlessly  happy,  anyway.  And  so,  he  in  turn,  gently 
touched  her  face,  saying,  "Why,  what's  the  matter, 
Marcy?" 

Marcy  thought  for  some  little  time.  Never  before  had 
he  seemed  so  kind.  But  it  was  easy  to  see  that  he  was  not 
thinking  of  her.  She  got  up  and  walked  away  from  him, 
slowly,  meditatively,  and  went  into  the  next  room,  while 


112  THE    TAKER 

Lester  heard  her  say,  feebly:  "Oh,  nothing,  I  guess  Pd 
better  dress." 

She  shut  the  door  after  her,  and  it  was  hardly  a  mo- 
ment before  he  heard  her  begin  the  fragment  of  her  little 
tune,  which  relieved  him  a  good  deal.  It  was  a  good  joke 
on  her. 

He  had  made  her  happy  by  getting  her  to  do  something 
from  which  lie  would  reap  the  reward. 

The  song  came  to  him  in  her  queer  little  voice. 

"I'd  rather  have  him  and  his  fifteen  a  week, 
Than  be  some  old  millionaire's  doll, 
He's  the  best  thing  what  wuz,  and  I  love  him  becuz 
He's  my  pal,  he's  my  pal." 

He  sat  down  at  the  table  and  listened,  his  thick  lips 
pursed,  his  lids  half  closed,  his  heavy  arm  swung  over  the 
side  of  the  chair.  He  remembered  how  he  had  first  met 
her,  how  he  had  been  attracted  to  her  when  she,  with  a 
dozen  other  girls  from  the  factory  and  the  village,  had 
made  up  a  hay-ride  party  along  the  river.  He  remem- 
bered how  pretty  her  round  little  legs  were  as  they  hung 
over  the  side  of  the  wagon,  and  how,  with  the  girls'  arms 
around  their  necks,  they  had  all  sang  lustily : 

"I'd  rather  have  him  and  his  fifteen  a  week, 
Than  be  some  old  millionaire's  doll." 

As  he  thought  about  it  now,  realising  how  childlike  and 
innocent  she  was,  and  how  he  was  using  her,  he  could  not 
help  feeling  a  little  sorry. 

"Poor  kid,  poor  kid,"  he  thought  .  .  .  while  his  smok- 
ing pipe  swayed  back  and  fro  in  the  hand  that  hung  over 
the  chair's  arm. 

Once  he  called  to  her:    "Hurry,  Marcy,  hurry " 

Mostly  he  kept  on  thinking:  "When  he  likes  her — it'll 
be  easy." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

TV/TARCY,  an  accomplice  in  her  husband's  scheme,  was 
***•*•  made  so  through  the  same  innocence  that  sent  her 
from  Lester's  side  to  Vernon's,  acquiescent  and  pliable, 
like  a  reed  that  bends  to  the  wind. 

It  was  when  she  saw  the  familiar  enough,  long,  red  wall 
and  the  iron  gateway  of  the  demons  Art  Glass  Works 
that  she  became  really  afraid  for  the  first  time  and  won- 
dered if  it  had  been  wise  of  Lester  to  make  her  see  his 
employer.  Hesitant,  she  entered  the  long,  bare  waiting 
room  and  took  her  seat  as  near  as  possible  to  the  aged 
clerk  in  charge,  while  her  vision  took  in  a  huddling  crowd 
of  people,  girls  and  boys  she  knew  and  had  played  with, 
and  bent  over  men  and  women,  all  waiting  for  an  interview 
with  the  important  Mr.  Vernon. 

Sitting  on  the  hard  bench,  after  she  had  hesitatingly 
told  what  she  wanted,  to  the  old  man  at  the  desk,  she  won- 
dered if  Vernon  would  be  mean  and  horrid  the  way  every- 
body said  he  was.  She  remembered  the  first  time  she  had 
ever  seen  Mr.  Vernon.  It  was  seven  or  eight  years  before 
and  she  was  playing  in  the  street  in  the  front  of  her  home ; 
a  car  went  past ;  a  very  handsome  man  and  a  woman  with 
blonde  hair  were  sitting  inside.  How  they  ah1  had  to  run 
out  of  the  way,  whispering,  after  they  had  reached  the 
sidewalk :  "There  go  the  Vernons  !" 

And  now  she  was  sitting  in  his  office.  Soon  she  would 
see  him. 

When  the  clerk  motioned  to  her  she  had  become  so 
nervous  she  could  hardly  move — shot  through  with  fear. 

113 


114  THE    TAKER 

But  she  managed  to  walk  to  the  desk,  controlling  any 
outward  sign  of  her  nervousness. 

Then  disappointment  pounded  at  her  ears. 

"Mr.  Vernon's  secretary  cannot  see  you  to-day,  Miss. 
They  don't  need  any  one." 

"Do  you  mean — that  I  can't  see  him?"  she  begged. 

"Not  to-day.     Come  back  to-morrow,  if  you  want." 

She  saw  the  clerk  glance  at  the  man  standing  back  of 
her.  Mechanically  she  turned  and  walked  out  of  the  room 
and  found  herself  in  the  courtyard  before  she  realised 
what  had  happened. 

She  had  failed.  What  would  she  tell  Lester?  What 
would  he  say  to  her?  She  could  almost  hear  him  shout 
hoarsely  at  her :  "Don't  you  tell  me  you  didn't  see  him !" 

At  one  corner  of  the  yard,  near  the  entrance,  she  en- 
countered some  workmen,  encasing  some  great  frames  of 
heavy  glass  windows.  She  stopped  dumbly,  in  front  of 
them,  and  caught  her  reflection  in  one  of  the  shining  sur- 
faces. Another  pang  of  anguish  rushed  through  her.  She 
saw  her  bright  new  clothes  in  which  she  had  garbed  herself 
to  approach  Vernon. 

Then  she  turned  hurriedly  from  the  reminder  and 
walked  quickly  through  the  large  iron  gate,  her  determina- 
tion withering  with  every  step. 

Fortunately,  a  brief  respite  awaited  her  at  home,  for 
Lester  was  away.  Sinking  into  a  chair  she  sat  silently  for 
some  time,  glad  of  a  chance  to  plan  some  excuse  for  her 
failure.  When  Lester  came  in  and  very  anxiously  walked 
up  to  her  and  said:  "Well?"  she  answered  hurriedly, 
"Well,  I  saw  him,  Lester,  and  he  wants  me  to  come  back 
in  the  morning.  He  was  awfully  busy."  Thoughtfully 
she  added,  as  his  face  seemed  to  cloud:  "Ain't  that 
great?" 


THE    TAKER  115 

"What  do  you  think  of  him?" 

"Oh," — it  was  hard  to  lie  while  his  heavy  face  was 
studying  her  so.  "He  wasn't  so  bad."  Then  she  added 
with  a  quaint  toss  of  her  gold  brown  head,  "I  didn't  have 
so  much  time  to  talk  to  him,  you  know." 

Apparently  this  satisfied  him,  although  she  noticed  he 
glanced  at  her  in  a  queer  way,  as  if  he  would  reserve  his 
suspicions  for  some  future  time.  Later,  while  she  was 
preparing  the  supper,  he  called  in  to  her : 

"I  had  a  funny  time  to-day,  Marcy.  You  know  the  fel- 
lows are  talking  about  striking.  Well,  I  had  a  job  making 
them  see  it  wouldn't  do  no  good."  When  she  came  into 
the  room  with  a  platter  of  cold  meat,  he  said,  regarding 
her  closely:  "They'd  spoil  everything  for  us,  wouldn't 
they?" 

"Sure  they  would,"  she  answered,  wondering  what 
meaning  was  in  his  words. 

All  through  the  night  there  played  in  front  of  Marcy 
the  people  who  vainly  had  sat  waiting  to  see  Vernon,  the 
old  bent  grey  figures,  the  girls  she  knew,  even  her  own 
hesitating  form.  And  early  the  next  morning  she  hurriedly 
rose,  cooked  the  breakfast  for  her  sleeping  husband,  scrib- 
bled a  note  that  she  put  on  his  plate  at  the  table:  "1 
guess  I  better  get  there  before  the  others — Marcy,"  and 
rushed  off  to  the  factory. 

There  was  only  one  thought  in  her  head  as  she  tore  out 
through  the  door.  She  must  see  Vernon  this  time,  or  she 
would  be  in  a  fix,  indeed. 

The  waiting  room  was  empty.  She  looked  around, 
thinking  to  herself  that  it  was  better  to  come  early  than 
to  have  been  caught  in  a  lie  by  Lester.  For  some  minutes 
she  sat  patiently  on  one  of  the  benches.  Then,  with  the 
thought  that  the  old  clerk  might  be  inside,  she  arose  and 


116  THE    TAKER 

walked  confidently  to  the  door  through  which  he  had  dis- 
appeared the  day  before. 

Silhouetted  against  the  light  of  the  window  was  a  man 
with  his  back  toward  her.  He  was  stylishly  dressed,  tall, 
with  broad  shoulders.  More  as  an  apology  for  being 
there,  Marcy  said  tremblingly:  "Is  any  one  here,  Mister?" 

The  man  turned  toward  her.  "Did  you  want  to  see 
some  one,  Miss  ?"  He  had  a  steady,  deep  voice. 

She  faltered:  "Why,  I — I — just  wanted  to  see  the  gen- 
tleman that  waits  outside."  His  clean,  white  face,  so 
stern  and  serious,  upset  her.  However,  her  fright  was 
eased  a  great  deal  by  the  gentle  smile  as  he  looked  at  her, 
that  spread  over  his  face  and  came  into  his  eyes  and  about 
his  thin  lips. 

She  saw  him  take  out  his  watch.  Then  he  said,  kindly : 
"Well,  you  are  a  little  too  early — a  half  hour  or  so.  I 
just  happened  to  be  here  on  my  way  to  the  train."  He 
looked  again  at  his  watch.  "You  might  sit  in  the  other 
room  and  wait,"  he  added. 

Braver,  now,  Marcy  said,  "Yes,  sir.  I  wouldn't  have 

come  so  early,  only "  .  .  .  suddenly  she  realised 

that  this  was  Mr.  Vernon.  No  one  else  around  the  place 
could  be  so  fine  looking.  She  went  on  bravely,  determined, 
unless  she  fall  in  a  faint,  to  make  the  most  of  this  oppor- 
tunity. "Well,  I  just  must  see  Mr.  Vernon." 

He  came  closer  to  her.  "What  do  you  want  with  him?" 
She  saw  his  eyes  were  studying  her  up  and  down. 
Strangely,  when  she  looked  straight  at  him  and  began 
speaking  she  found  herself  saying:  "I  think  I'll  come 
back  again.  I  just  thought  I  might  catch  him  in  early," 
while  her  one  thought  now  was  to  stay  and  talk  about  the 
job. 


THE    TAKER  117 

"What  do  you  want  to  see  him  about?"  He  was  looking 
at  her  steadily. 

"Why,  I  just  wanted  a  job,"  she  hesitated — the  first 
words  that  came  to  her  mind. 

"What  can  you  do?" 

That  she  must  be  fitted  to  do  a  certain  thing  was  a  fact 
that  suddenly  confronted  her.  For  the  moment  she  re- 
sented his  words,  which  in  the  instant  seemed  to  scatter  all 
her  plans.  At  last  she  plunged  into  the  first  defence  that 
came  to  her,  while  she  looked  up  at  him  in  a  silent  appeal 
for  mercy. 

"I  don't  know — I  couldn't  tell  until  I  see  what  kind  of  a 
job  I  get." 

He  gave  a  little  comforting  laugh,  and  then,  gently 
took  hold  of  her  arm,  saying:  "All  right,  just  wait  in  the 
next  room.  We'll  see  what  we  can  do." 

And  Marcy  walked  out,  perplexed,  wondering,  and  yet 
happily  conscious  that  what  she  had  done  was  the  right 
thing. 

It  was  about  an  hour  later  that  the  old  clerk  called  her 
to  the  desk  and  said  that  Mr.  Vernon  would  see  her  in  his 
private  office.  In  another  moment  she  found  herself  stand- 
ing in  front  of  Vernon.  For  some  time,  an  interminable 
time  to  Marcy,  the  man  looked  at  her.  Then,  with  a  smile, 
he  exclaimed:  "I've  found  I  don't  need  to  go  to  the  city 
to-day  and  I  don't  usually  see  those  seeking  employment ; 
but  you — rather  interested  me.  What  is  your  name?" 

"Oh,  you  are  Mr.  Vernon,  aren't  you?"  she  implored. 

Again  he  smiled.  "Yes.  But  that  need  not  bother  you. 
Sit  down."  He  pointed  to  a  leather  cushioned  seat  beside 
the  desk — "and  tell  me  as  much  as  you  can  in  a  minute." 

Marcy  found  it  difficult  to  realise  that  she  was  in  the 
presence  of  the  man  whose  name  had  always  awed  her  so. 


118  THE    TAKER 

She  tried  to  think  what  she  must  say  to  him.  Everything 
in  the  room  looked  so  important,  the  heavy  gold  framed 
pictures  of  churches  and  cathedrals,  the  panelled  samples 
of  art  glass  work,  the  different  plans  and  etchings.  On 
the  desk  she  noticed  heavy  glass  jars  of  some  material 
marked  "Silica"  and  right  at  the  side  of  his  desk  a  series 
of  old  drawings  showing  the  Egyptians  working  in  glass. 
Also  there  were  two  small  oil  paintings,  one  of  them  show- 
ing a  naked  woman  reclining  on  a  sofa. 

But  out  of  them  came  no  thought  that  would  clear  the 
way  for  the  little  speech  she  must  make  to  him.  Then  she 
heard  him  say  again:  "Now  tell  me  your  name,  Miss," 
and  she  caught  herself. 

"Why,  my  name — it's  Marcy — Marcy  Moore,  Mr. 
Vernon." 

For  a  time  he  was  very  apparently  studying  her,  look- 
ing at  her  so  steadily  that  she  found  herself  bowing  her 
head,  as  if  to  shield  herself  from  his  glances.  Then  he 
arose  from  his  chair,  just  as  she  was  on  the  point  of  tell- 
ing him  that  she  was  married  to  a  young  man — that  her 
own  name  had  been  Neil.  But  he  became  suddenly  serious 
again  and  impatient  and  his  words  "Come  in  to-morrow — 
maybe  we  can  find  something  for  you,"  shut  off  whatever 
explanation  she  wanted  to  give.  However,  as  she  walked 
out  she  felt  that  he  was  still  looking  at  her,  studying  her 
in  a  way  that  was  not  unfavourable. 

That  night  Marcy  told  Lester,  with  face  alight,  "I 
think  it  will  be  fine,  Lester.  I  know  he'll  give  me  work  the 
way  he  acted.  And  as  soon  as  I  get  a  job  I'll  ask  him  to 
give  you  work  too."  Without  knowing  the  reason  for  it 
she  went  on  to  a  fanciful  scene,  quite  elaborately  describ- 
ing how  he  had  selected  her  from  all  the  others  who  were 
waiting. 


THE    TAKER  119 

Two  days  passed  when  a  little  note  came  saying  that  a 
small  position  awaited  her  at  the  factory  and  that  if  she 
proved  satisfactory  after  a  trial,  her  small  salary  would 
be  raised. 

Early  the  next  morning  she  went  to  the  factory  office 
and  a  fat,  baldheaded  man  took  her  to  the  mailing  and 
filing  room,  immediately  adjoining  Vernon's  office,  showed 
her  how  she  was  to  put  away  in  their  proper  places,  copies 
of  all  the  letters  that  were  sent  out  and  told  her  she  must 
be  particular  to  do  her  task  without  any  mistakes. 

So  nearly  a  month  went  by,  with  Marcy  happy  and  sat- 
isfied, her  only  troubling  thought  springing  from  the  fact 
that  she  never  dared  tell  her  employer  she  was  married,  or 
that  her  husband  had  been  laid  off  and  was  sitting  at 
home,  in  the  dining-room,  waiting  for  her  to  get  his  job 
back  for  him. 

From  day  to  day  she  put  off  this  obligation,  until,  one 
evening,  when  the  opportunity  did  come,  she  found  there 
were  many  reasons  why  she  must  not  tell  him. 

Vernon  called  her  into  the  office  that  night,  just  at  clos- 
ing time. 

"How  are  you  getting  along?"  he  asked,  motioning  her 
to  the  seat  beside  him.  He  seemed  so  glad  to  see  her  that 
she  felt  quite  at  ease. 

"Oh,  I'm  getting  along  fine,"  she  answered,  taking  the 
chair  he  pushed  out  for  her. 

"I  was  wondering  about  you,"  he  went  on ;  "wondering 
if  you  were  satisfied  here." 

Opposite  her,  in  a  mirror  that  hung  out  from  the  wall 
from  an  angle,  she  saw  the  reflection  of  the  crowd  pouring 
out  of  the  gateway  and  over  running  into  the  brick-paved 
street.  A  wish  came  into  her  mind  that  she  could  let  them 


120  THE    TAKER 

know  that  she,  Marcy  Moore,  was  having  an  interview 
with  Mr.  Vernon. 

As  he  took  a  cigarette  and  gently  rolled  it  between  his 
fingers,  he  said  casually:  "You  like  your  work,  then?" 

"Oh,  awfully  much." 

He  noticed  how  nervously  eager  she  was,  how  her  lus- 
trous hair  hung  embracingly  over  her  ears  and  caught  a 
silvery  polish,  from  the  fading  daylight,  on  its  heaviest 
curl. 

Slowly  he  lit  a  match,  looked  strangely  into  her  eyes 
and  said,  thoughtfully: 

"We're  not  so  very  busy  now,  but  the  fall  orders  will 
soon  make  us  rush  again."  Laughing  in  a  friendly  way 
he  added :  "That'll  mean  harder  work  for  you.  Will  you 
mind?" 

She  cried  earnestly :    "Oh,  I  should  be  glad  of  it." 

"Anyway,"  he  went  on,  "maybe  we  will  see  that  you  get 
a  little  larger  salary  by  then." 

For  a  time  there  was  silence  between  them  which  Marcy 
hesitated  to  break.  However,  she  did  feel  uncomfortable 
with  Vernon  sitting  so  quietly  looking  at  her.  It  had  be- 
come quite  dark  now  too,  and  somehow  a  picture  crept 
into  her  mind  of  her  husband  standing  by  the  window  and 
watching  for  her  to  come  in  through  the  gate.  It  was  in- 
deed a  relief  when  a  scrubwoman's  brushing  could  be 
heard  coming  down  the  hall. 

Suddenly  Vernon  got  up.  "Why,"  he  exclaimed,  "I 
didn't  mean  to  make  you  stay  so  late,  Miss — Moore.  I'm 
sorry.  Do  you  live  near  here?" 

He  seemed  so  anxious  about  her  welfare  that  she  said, 
earnestly :  "Oh,  don't  worry  about  me.  I'm  all  right.  I 
can  get  home  in  five  minutes."  Rising  from  the  chair,  she 
added :  "I  only  live  over  on  Third  street."  As  if  he  might 


THE    TAKER  121 

not  know  about  the  little  row  of  cottages  peopled  by  his 
employees,  she  directed  his  gaze  out  of  the  window  with 
the  little  finger  of  her  left  hand,  while  a  thought  smote 
her  heart  that  even  this  was  not  the  proper  way  to  point 
out  a  direction. 

But  he  did  not  seem  to  notice,  only  jumping  up  and 
looking  at  his  watch.  Marcy  saw  him  hesitate,  as  if  he 
were  in  doubt  whether  he  should  dare  to  venture  out  on 
the  walk  with  her.  He  ended  up  by  saying : 

"Yes,  you  had  better  get  home.  You'll  be  late  for  your 
supper,  won't  you?"  Then  his  nervousness  seemed  to  be 
controlled,  for  he  added,  quietly  enough:  "I'm  so  sorry  I 
kept  you." 

But  in  Marcy  there  was  only  a  great  smothering  feel- 
ing, a  desire  that  the  power  be  given  her  to  let  him  know 
how  she  appreciated  his  thought  of  her.  And  at  last  she 
managed:  "Oh,  I  think  it's  been  the  reverse.  I  think  I 
have  been  keeping  you,  instead  of  you — me." 

Hurriedly  she  picked  up  her  little  frayed  pocket-book 
and  walked  toward  the  door,  a  good  deal  surprised  that 
he  should  follow  her.  Somehow  all  she  wanted  to  do 
was  to  get  away,  while  in  her  mind  kept  pounding  a 
great  joy  that  she  had  talked  so  well  to  him.  The  word 
reverse  seemed  just  to  have  come  out  of  some  friendly 
heaven.  But  he  followed  her  to  the  door  and  opened  it 
for  her.  He  seemed  to  be  thinking  about  something  until 
he  said  in  a  very  careless  fashion : 

"You  know — you  look  a  little  pale,  Miss  Moore.  Don't 
you  ever  get  out  in  the  country,  out  in  the  sunlight?  It 
would  do  you  a  lot  of  good." 

She  couldn't  give  him  an  answer  right  away.  Nor 
could  she  say  that  she  had  little  opportunity  since  she 


122  THE    TAKER 

must  cook  her  husband's  meals.  She  caught  herself  just 

in  time  and  said:  "Why,  I "  the  lie  she  was  telling 

seemed  to  choke  her — "I  just  love  the  country — whenever 
I  get  a  chance  to." 

Torn  between  letting  himself  do  what  he  wanted  to  do 
and  the  fear  of  a  possible  calamity  by  being  seen,  Vernon 
did  not  answer  her  as  she  expected  he  would.  Instead  she 
saw  him  walk  over  to  the  window  and  look  up  and  down  the 
street.  A  great  thought  racked  him.  Had  he  ever  had 
this  sort  of  opportunity  for  real  happiness?  Had  any 
kindly  fate  ever  before  so  tempted  him?  Within  his  soul, 
as  he  looked  down  on  to  the  people  filing  out  who 
gained  their  bread  and  butter  simply  because  of  him,  a 
great  whisper  seemed  to  rise — a  whisper  that  said: 
"You've  been  a  fool  long  enough."  So  it  was  that  when  he 
came  back  to  her  side  he  said  in  a  very  friendly  and  de- 
cisive way : 

"Now  I  tell  you  what  I  want  you  to  do.  Some  Satur- 
day afternoon — next  Saturday  would  be  a  good  time,  you 
walk  out  on  the  Farm  Road.  Maybe  I'll  come  along  in 
my  roadster  and  pick  you  up.  Would  you  like  a  nice  little 
ride?" 

How  good  it  was  of  him,  she  thought ;  then  wondered  if 
she  could  get  back  in  time  to  cook  Lester's  dinner  at 
night.  Still  her  husband  always  played  pool  every  Satur- 
day afternoon  and  hardly  ever  came  home. 

As  if  divining  the  reason  for  her  hesitation,  Vernon 
added:  "Oh,  you  needn't  worry  about  getting  home.  I 
can  get  you  back,"  he  thought  for  a  brief  moment — "to 
the  end  of  Main  Street,  long  before  six  o'clock.  Then 
you  can  run  on  home,  yourself.  You  wouldn't  mind  that, 
would  you?" 


THE    TAKER  123 

"Oh,  you're  so  kind,  Mr.  Vernon.  Of  course  I  wouldn't 
mind." 

He  opened  the  door  for  her  and  Marcy  walked  out,  with 
the  wish  that  one  of  the  scrubwomen,  perchance,  might 
see  her  come  out  of  the  President's  private  office. 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  following  Saturday  afternoon,  after  an  interim 
of  breathless  expectance  and  incredulity,  Marcy 
tramped  a  good  half  hour  through  the  dust  of  the  seldom 
travelled  Farm  Road  before  Vernon  overtook  her. 

"I'm  sorry  I  made  you  wait  so  long,"  he  said,  as  he 
stopped  the  car  and  opened  the  door  for  her  to  get  in  be- 
side him.  "I  had  to  attend  to  some  stupid  correspondence 
at  the  office."  He  added,  bending  over  her:  "Only  the 
boss  has  to  work  Saturday  afternoons." 

She  stepped  into  the  car  proudly,  yet  stifled  by  the 
realisation  that  the  great  man,  so  fine  looking  in  his  heavy 
grey  coat  and  white  flannel  trousers,  should  be  taking 
her  with  him  the  way  he  would  any  of  the  people  he 
knew. 

For  some  time  he  drove  very  fast,  without  a  word. 
Then,  with  his  face  away  from  her,  as  if  he  must  study 
the  road  ahead,  he  said,  apparently  pleased  by  the  idea: 

"I  know  a  little  place  up  near  Tarrytown,  where  we 
might  stop  and  get  some  lemonade,  or  something.  It's  so 
hot  and  dusty."  Now  he  turned  toward  her,  "How  would 
you  like  that?" 

"Why,  I  think  that  would  be  fine,"  she  answered. 

"It's  a  nice,  quiet,  little  place,"  he  exclaimed  a  little 
more  enthusiastically.  "There  are  a  couple  of  musicians 
there,  or  at  least  there  used  to  be — if  any  one  wants  to 
dance.  Do  you  care  for  dancing?" 

"Oh,  I  love  to  dance.     Do  you  dance?"  she  blurted  on. 

He  smiled,  answering,  "No,  I  don't  dance,  you  see  I'm 

124 


THE    TAKER  125 

thirty-seven — that's  near  forty, — but  if  you  want  to,  per- 
haps we  can  find  a  partner  for  you,"  he  added,  half  in 
earnest.  As  he  spoke  she  suddenly  became  conscious  that 
her  dress  had  drawn  up,  baring  her  legs  far  above  her 
shoetops.  Quickly  pulling  down  her  skirt  she  saw  too, 
that  his  attention  had  been  attracted  by  her  action. 
Rather  shamedly  she  turned  away  from  him,  while  crimson 
blotches  stole  to  her  cheeks. 

Vernon  was  on  the  point  of  saying  something,  then 
caught  himself  and  turning  to  the  wheel,  fixed  his  eyes  on 
the  road  ahead. 

A  little  further  on  they  turned  through  a  bowered  gate- 
way and  stopped  at  the  side  of  a  newly  painted  frame 
building.  One  or  two  other  automobiles  were  standing 
under  a  sort  of  shed.  He  helped  her  out,  standing  for  a 
moment  in  a  study  of  the  other  cars. 

Then  he  said:  "Let's  go  in,"  a  little  nervously,  and 
led  the  way  through  a  screen  door,  into  a  large  room  with 
many  tables.  At  the  farthest  end  sat  two  or  three  couples 
and  Vernon  gave  them  a  sharp  glance  before  he  sat  down 
at  a  table  shown  him  by  the  waiter.  For  a  moment  his 
look  of  uneasiness  worried  her,  as  if  he  regretted  their 
coming  here.  But  as  soon  as  they  sat  down  at  the  table 
his  manner  changed  again.  He  suddenly  became  kind  and 
gentle,  while  his  only  explanatory  word  was :  "You  know 
I'd  hate  to  run  into  anybody  from  the  factory,"  and 
added:  "You  understand  that,  don't  you?" 

She  replied  assuringly,  "Oh,  of  course  I  understand." 

But  she  could  not  help  noticing  how  the  other  couples 
eyed  them.  "You  don't  know  any  of  those  people,  do  you, 
Mr.  Vernon?"  she  suddenly  asked. 

Vernon  understood  what  had  prompted  the  question. 
He  answered  casually,  looking  at  his  watch  as  he  spoke: 


126  THE    TAKER 

"They're  probably  people  living  near  here.  Everybody 
knows  every  one  else.  It's  like  a  big  family." 

But  it  was  with  some  satisfaction  that  he  saw  the 
couple  at  the  end  of  the  room,  turn  to  each  other  and  be- 
gin in  whispers  their  own  conversations.  He  had  visions 
of  news  spreading  at  the  factory  next  day.  He  could  even 
see  the  old  clerk  at  his  desk  in  the  reception  hall,  whisper 
to  the  doorkeeper :  "I  hear  the  boss  was  out  for  a  little 
drive." 

Marcy's  eyes  now  took  in  the  small  raised  platform  at 
the  end  of  the  room,  where  two  coloured  musicians  were 
playing  the  piano  and  violin.  It  was  fine  to  be  happy 
like  this,  she  thought,  and  when  she  watched  Vernon  give 
his  order  to  the  waiter  saying:  "A  claret  lemonade  for 
the  lady,  a  Scotch  highball  for  me,"  she  thought  how  won- 
derful he  was  and  how  coarse  Lester  would  be,  giving  an 
order,  with  his  rough  words  and  bullying  manner.  She 
even  remembered  the  time  the  boy  had  taken  her  out  to  a 
cafe  and  forced  her  to  drink  some  plain  whiskey.  "Be  a 
sport,"  he  had  said,  and  was  angry  with  her  when  she  hesi- 
tated. This  man  was  so  kind,  so  different. 

When  the  waiter  brought  the  drinks,  Vernon  murmured, 
apologetically,  "I  ordered  lemonade  for  you.  I  hope  that 
was  all  right,"  while  the  thought  stole  in  his  mind  that  if 
any  one  should  ever  question  him,  the  lemonade  would  be  a 
good  proof  of  his  care  of  her. 

"Oh,  I  never  drink  anything  else,"  she  asserted. 

He  drank  very  slowly,  as  he  watched  her.  Marcy  was  a 
little  ashamed  when  she  realised  that  she  had  finished  her 
drink  before  he  was  through  with  his.  "You  can  have 
another,  if  you  want  it,"  he  said,  noticing  her  embarrass- 
ment. 

"Well,  if  I » 


THE    TAKER  127 

"Waiter,"  he  called,  "bring  us  another  claret  lemon- 
ade," even  before  she  could  stop  him. 

It  was  such  fun  to  be  in  this  quiet  place.  Their  table 
was  in  a  sort  of  bay  window  and  down  through  the  trees 
could  be  seen  the  shining  water  of  the  Hudson.  A  gauzy 
pink  shade  that  covered  the  light  on  the  table  made  the 
place  even  more  cozy.  As  she  looked  across  to  Vernon  she 
smiled  to  show  him  how  happy  she  was. 

For  a  time  Vernon  sat  in  silence  listening  to  the  music 
with  just  a  casual  glance  at  her  now  and  then,  which 
Marcy  tried  to  return  in  the  same  knowing  manner.  She 
could  not  know  what  pitying  thought  went  through  the 
man's  mind  for  her  effort  at  worldliness,  wording  to  him- 
self the  phrase  that  always  lay  deep  in  his  consciousness. 
"Poor  things — they're  all  alike." 

There  even  raced  through  his  mind  many  of  the  spent 
episodes  in  his  life,  where  all  the  glory  of  an  assignation 
had  been  spoilt  by  this  same  willingness  but  lack  of  under- 
standing. Even  as  he  watched  the  beautiful  child  smiling 
so  sweetly  across  at  him  he  reflected  what  a  pity  it  was 
that  all  attractive  women  didn't  know  the  rule  of  the  hunt 
— that  a  sportsman  could  not  fire  at  the  bird  on  the  limb. 
Only  the  ugly  women  knew  how  to  hold  aloof — their  only 
defence,  perhaps. 

It  was  after  some  time  of  this  disturbing  reflection  that 
Vernon  said,  as  much  to  upset  the  trend  of  his  own 
thoughts  as  to  interest  Marcy: 

"Tell  me,  do  you  wonder  much  about  things,  people, 
life — you  know,  the  things  that  we  read  about  in  the  news- 
papers ?" 

Determined  that  he  would  not  find  her  ignorant  and 
unprepared  with  a  reply,  she  plunged  into  an  answer. 

"Oh,  I  guess  I  know  a  good  deal,  that  is,  for  one  who 


128  THE    TAKER 

hasn't  travelled  much."  She  watched  his  eyes  for  approval 
as  she  spoke. 

He  laughed  gently  and  thoughtfully  went  on:  "Tell 
me,  what  kind  of  a  man  do  you  think  I  am  ?" 

"Why,  I  guess  you  are  a  man — that's  used  to  having 
everything  pretty  nice."  She  continued  with  more  con- 
viction, "I  guess  you  know  how  to  make  men  mind  you, 
all  right." 

He  gently  reached  across  the  table  and,  as  if  it  were  a 
good  joke,  took  her  hand,  squeezed  it,  and  said:  "Fine, 
just  my  character  exactly."  When  he  leaned  back,  he 
added:  "Have  you  ever  thought  about  what  kind  of  a 
man  is  going  to  love  you  some  day,  and  you  are  going  to 
love?  You  know  that's  bound  to  happen  to  you  just  like 
it  happens  to  every  one  else." 

This  was  not  so  easily  answered.  For  a  moment  she 
thought  that  now  would  be  a  good  time  to  tell  him  that 
already  she  was — well,  after  all,  she  wasn't  loved  by  Les- 
ter. So  for  the  want  of  a  better  idea  she  entered  into  a 
description  of  what  she  thought  represented  a  fine  looking, 
well-dressed,  successful  man  like  Vernon.  She  said,  "blue 
eyes"  even,  finding  it  hard  in  her  veiled  glance  to  be  sure 
whether  his  eyes  were  blue  or  grey. 

It  made  him  laugh,  and  this  time  he  reached  across  and 
took  her  hand  and  held  it,  even  after  he  was  through  with 
his  remark :  "I  think  you're  flattering  me." 

At  the  moment,  the  conviction  shot  through  him  that 
all  his  days  of  longing  were  at  an  end.  In  a  way  appar- 
ently without  design,  or  thought,  he  took  her  fingers  and 
gently  squeezed  them.  Then  just  when  it  seemed  as  if  an 
unspoken  protest  must  steal  into  her  thoughts,  he  took  his 
hand  away  and  from  the  little  stand  in  the  centre  of  the 


THE    TAKER  129 

table  lifted  a  few  matches.  Burning  one  or  two  of  them 
down  to  their  very  ends  he  exclaimed,  rather  seriously : 

"That's  the  way  some  people's  lives  go.  Just  burning 
out,  without  ever  making  a  flame  that  any  one  sees." 

He  seemed  so  sad  that  Marcy  remarked,  for  no  other 
reason  than  to  justify  his  kindness  to  her,  "I  guess  it  don't) 
do  any  good  to  think  so  seriously  about  things,  does  it?" 

This  period  of  speculation  was  cut  short,  however,  when 
a  very  fat  woman  of  middle  age  got  up  from  her  chair  at 
the  far  end  of  the  room  and  with  a  thin,  pale-faced  young 
fellow  began  to  dance  around  the  space  cleared  of  tables. 

Vernon  saw  the  look  of  disgust  creep  into  Marcy's  eyes 
and  hastened  to  change  her  thoughts,  saying: 

"This  is  a  pretty  nice  place,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes,  it's  awfully  nice,"  though  her  eyes  followed  the 
ill-matched  couple. 

Then,  a  middle  aged  man,  with  a  woman  quite  the  same 
age,  and  a  young  girl  of  about  her  own  age  came  wearily 
into  the  room,  and  sat  down  at  a  table  near  them.  They 
had  on  dusty  looking  automobile  coats  and  seemed  too 
tired  to  speak  to  each  other,  though  Marcy  noticed  how 
the  young  girl's  eyes  continually  roamed  about  the  room. 
She  had  blonde  hair  and  was  really  pretty. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Marcy  saw  Vernon  turn, 
caught  by  the  little  girl's  wandering  glance.  He  said : 

"A  happy  family  out  for  an  airing  and  none  of  them 
talking  to  each  other." 

"I  guess  they're  too  tired,"  she  suggested. 

He  added,  "Or  too  bored."  She  heard  him  sigh,  and 
murmur  sadly:  "Life — life " 

They  were  in  the  car  and  at  the  outskirts  of  Hastings 
in  what  seemed  to  Marcy  half  the  time  it  had  taken  them 


130  THE    TAKER 

to  go  out.  And  when  Vernon  said:  "Good-bye,  now 
hurry  home  and  take  good  care  of  yourself,"  adding  in  a 
very  kindly  voice :  "know  that  I  am  thinking  of  you  too," 
it  seemed  that  instantly  all  of  her  happiness  was  swallowed 
up. 

She  had  even  composed  a  little  speech  that  would  tell 
him  how  wonderful  it  was  that  he  should  be  so  interested 
in  a  poor  girl  like  her  but  he  skipped  off  leaving  her  full  of 
resentment,  at  his  hurried  departure. 

However,  until  his  car  vanished  in  a  cloud  of  dust  at  a 
turn  in  the  road  she  stood  loking  after  him,  thinking  how 
lucky  she  was,  and  how  she  wished  she  might  dare  defiantly 
to  tell  her  husband  how  Mr.  Vernon  liked  her.  Never 
before  in  all  her  life  had  she  ever  felt  so  full  of  courage. 

When  she  reached  the  little  cottage  and  went  in  to  the 
green-papered  dining  room  and  saw  that  it  was  ten  min- 
utes of  six  and  that  she  must  hurry  with  the  supper,  a  feel- 
ing of  honest  indignation  spread  over  her  at  the  idea  that 
she  must  cook  for  the  gruif  Lester,  who  appreciated  her 
qualities  not  even  half  as  much  as  did  her  employer. 

She  was  really  happy  when,  after  waiting  until  past 
seven-thirty,  she  realised  that  her  husband  was  not  coming 
home  for  the  evening  meal.  Her  anger  had  even  fuller 
sway  when  she  imagined  him  playing  pool  and  gambling 
away  the  money  she  was  earning  for  him. 

Marcy  waited  till  eight  o'clock  before  she  went  into  her 
room  and  undressed  slowly,  for  the  first  time  putting  her 
clothes  away  with  care,  even  laying  out  her  Sunday  morn- 
ing's dress  and  the  little  lace  collar  she  wore  with  it.  Con- 
tinually in  her  mind  were  pictures  of  the  afternoon — the 
way  she  had  sat  opposite  Mr.  Vernon  and  talked  to  him — 
how  sad  he  had  looked  when  he  bent  over  the  burnt 
matches. 


THE    TAKER  131 

As  she  jumped  into  bed  her  thoughts  had  an  odd  ac- 
companiment. 

She  wished  now  she  might  have  said  something  that 
would  have  made  Mr.  Vernon  feel  better. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

¥  N  the  weeks  that  followed,  Mabel  found  her  husband 
•*•  growing  more  and  more  silent  and  meditative,  while 
Leonard  became  more  and  more  aware  that  she  was  in- 
creasingly petulant  and  childlike.  Every  day  it  seemed 
she  had  some  new  experiences  which  she  must  relate  to 
him.  It  seemed  to  be  a  species  of  expression  of  her  love. 
For  the  first  time  she  began  to  consult  him  regarding  per- 
sonal matters,  like  her  clothes,  and  fineries.  And  no  mat- 
ter how  bored  he  was  by  this,  she  would  talk  to  him  and 
question  him  in  an  animated,  childlike  way,  that  made  him 
want  to  run  out  of  the  house. 

Sitting  in  his  office,  Leonard  would  grow  tense  with 
anger,  as  he  thought  over  this,  and  saw  how,  without  even 
knowing  it,  she  was  re-living  for  him  Jennie's  lover-like 
antics. 

One  day,  Mabel  came  across  an  advertisement  in  a  New 
York  paper,  relating  how  a  certain  Madame  Bleu  had  dis- 
covered a  method  by  which  one  could  determine  the  exact 
perfume  each  temperament  required.  The  only  set  back 
was  that  the  wife  must  know  her  husband's  preference  in 
colours  and  music. 

And  that  night  as  they  were  leaving  the  table,  she 
stopped  him  and  told  him  this  with  wide-open  eyes  and  her 
face  wreathed  in  satisfaction  at  her  great  discovery. 

And  when  he  laughed  at  her,  she  came  back,  her  spirits 
drooping  somewhat: 

"But  Leonard — I'm  only  doing  this  to  please  you."  Ris- 

132 


THE    TAKER  133 

ing  from  the  table  she  came  to  his  side.  "Why,  it  might  be 
just  some  such  a — an  intangible — that  will  make  you  love 
me  the  way  you  ought  to." 

"Oh,  Mabel,  don't — don't,"  he  begged;  "our  lives 
aren't  guided — by  intangibles." 

He  felt  like  saying  that  it  took  something  a  whole  lot 
more  definite.  But  as  always,  her  strange  expression  of 
agony  showing  through  her  glad  face,  like  some  veil-like 
shroud  covering  the  horror  underneath,  kept  back  his 
words. 

Restlessly,  he  left  the  table  and  walked  to  the  white 
stone  mantel-piece  where  he  caught  a  reflection  of  himself 
in  the  slanting  mirror  hanging  above  it.  For  the  first  time 
in  a  great  while  he  had  dined  wearing  his  dinner  clothes. 
And  in  the  mirror  he  could  see  how  Mabel  glanced  at  his 
back,  admiringly.  The  thought  came  to  him  that  she 
ought  to  realise  that  a  good  looking  man  like  him  could 
not  be  expected  to  throw  himself  away  on  her. 

In  fact,  Mabel  had  a  hard  fight  to  keep  back  her  desire 
to  add  just  one  more  plea  that  he  come  back  to  her,  at 
least  in  spirit.  As  he  stood  smoking  with  his  arm  resting 
on  the  mantel,  he  was  indeed  fine-looking.  Somehow  the 
narrow  dinner  coat  made  him  look  taller  and  broader 
through  the  shoulders.  She  wished  that  she  might  go  up 
and  throw  her  arms  about  him  and  draw  him  close  to  her. 
For  the  moment  a  pang  of  vindictive  remorse  actually 
shot  through  her  that  she  had  not  been  created  more 
beautiful.  Then  he  turned  and  she  saw  how  tightly  the 
broad  expanse  of  white  silk  clung  to  his  bosom.  Truly 
he  was  getting  more  handsome  than  ever.  And  developing 
more  in  character,  too.  It  must  have  been  the  strain  of 
his  business  worries  that  was  moulding  him.  At  least  the 
strength  of  his  will  was  more  apparent  than  ever.  He 


134  THE    TAKER 

seemed  so  much  more  confident,  more  pleased  with  things 
and  more  at  ease.  She  could  tell  by  the  way  the  muscles 
contracted  uneasily  under  the  flesh  of  his  smooth  skinned 
jaws  and  cheeks  and  by  his  eyes,  formerly  so  soft  and 
dreamy,  which  now  were  showing  a  new  strength — unyield- 
ing, cold,  yet  reposeful.  Suddenly  she  broke  out: 

"Oh,  Leonard,  why  can't  we  be  happy?  Why  can't 
you  treat  me  decently,  as  you  used  to  before  we  were  mar- 
ried?" She  half  shut  her  eyes,  as  if  to  recall  the  past. 
"Oh,  you  don't  know  how  noble  and  wonderful  you  were 
then !" 

He  answered  with  a  good  deal  of  control : 

''Why,  Mabel,  do  you  think — you  are  giving  me — all 

that  a  wife  should?  Maybe  you  are  not  to  blame " 

fully  conscious  that  what  he  was  saying  had  no  meaning. 
He  saw  her  look  at  him  in  a  startled  way.  "But  you 
know,"  he  went  on,  "it  is  not  always  good  intentions  that 
even  up  things.  Sometimes  we  have  to  bow  our  heads 
and  submit  to  things  that  are  inevitable,  just  because — 
well,  because  we  are  made  in  a  certain  way.'* 

At  the  moment  he  could  not  help  surveying  her  tall, 
thin  figure,  the  spareness  of  which  she  even  accentuated 
by  wearing  a  black  jet  and  lace  dress.  Also  he  was  a  lit- 
tle angered  that  she  should  have  intruded  this  subject  on 
him  so  inopportunely.  Just  at  the  moment  his  thoughts, 
enveloped  by  the  soft  blue  smoke  from  his  cigar,  had  been 
delving  along  new  vistas,  where  a  beautifully  gowned  little 
woman  was  waiting  for  him  amid  glowing  lights  and 
humming  orchestras. 

And  he  added  with  a  certain  bitterness,  "I  suppose  you 
understand  what  I  mean,  don't  you?" 

"You  see,  Mabel,"  he  said — there  was  a  long  cone  of 
ashes  on  his  cigar  and  he  took  the  time  to  brush  it  into 


THE    TAKER  135 

the  grate  before  he  went  on — "our  angles  of  vision  are 
different.  You  know,  all  women  are  a  little  insane  in  their 
hearts.  But  God  made  them  just  that  much  cleverer  to 

keep  it  from  going  to  their  heads.  And  in  your  case " 

there  was  a  disparaging  glance  that/cut  her  to  the  quick, 
as  he  ranted  on,  "but  I'll  get  off  the  physical  end  of  the 
conversation,  if  you  want  to."  He  ended  up  by  exclaim- 
ing restlessly:  "Oh,  Mabel,  why  won't  you  just  see  it 
and  give  in?  You  know,  you  will  always  have  a  hard  time 
of  it,  because  it's  your  vanity  to  suffer  anyway." 

A  tall  waiter,  sent  up  from  New  York  some  three  weeks 
before,  with  the  recommendation  that  he  had  worked  in  a 
home  belonging  to  the  "Four  Hundred,"  now  came  in  and 
interrupted  them  for  a  time  by  clearing  away  the  table. 
When  he  had  left  in  his  automaton-like  fashion,  Mabel, 
with  some  show  of  relief,  said  anxiously : 

"Leonard,  you  don't  care  for  me — merely  because  I'm 
not  good-looking  enough."  More  to  herself  she  ex- 
claimed: "And  I  thought  you  were  different  from  other 
men.  I  thought  you  were  attracted  by  whatever  spiritual 
beauty  you  might  have  found  in  me  and  not  by  this  per- 
ishable physical  thing."  She  turned  away.  "But  I  know 
better  now,  Leonard."  Suddenly  she  broke  out  in  a  tem- 
pest which  in  the  instant  seemed  to  consume  her  entirely : 
"I'm  beginning  to  hate  men." 

Seeing  that  he  must  argue  out  the  point  if  for  no  other 
reason  than  to  spend  a  few  minutes  in  conversation — a 
brief  payment  to  his  conscience — he  sought  for  a  way 
that  would  show  clearly  what  he  meant. 

"Well,  you  see,  Mabel,"  he  began,  "I  thought  when  I 
married  you,  that  the  mental  and  physical  beings  were 
entirely  separate  and  independent  of  each  other.  That 
was  the  real  reason  for  my  marrying  you.  But  I've 


136  THE    TAKER 

learned,  regardless  of  my  fight  against  it,  that  one  only 
reveals  and  completes  the  other." 

A  new  idea  seemed  to  come  to  him  as  he  talked,  and  he 
went  on  more  earnestly: 

"One  is  the  breath  of  life  to  the  other.  It's  just  like 
the  new-born  babe.  It  has  a  body  and  all  that,  but  breath 
must  be  put  into  it  before  there  is  life."  As  he  said  this, 
Mabel's  thin  lips  were  pressed  even  more  tightly  together, 
and  from  the  way  she  folded  a  napkin  back  and  forth, 
which  she  had  picked  up,  he  could  easily  see  how  hard  she 
was  fighting  to  control  herself. 

"You — you  mean,"  she  exclaimed  distrait,  when  she 
could  hold  out  no  longer,  "why,  I  don't  understand  you, 
Leonard !" 

"Yes,  I  mean  that  you,  knowing  you  lack — physical  at- 
tractiveness, are — dwarfed  by  this  same  conviction  your- 
self. You're  enfeebled  by  it.  You  would,  therefore, 
rather  be  weak  and  suffer,  since  this  is  more  readily  at 
your  hand.  Your  pride  is  in  not  having  any.  It's  like  a 
man,  only  half  prepared,  trying  to  make  a  speech.  He's 
afraid  of  his  audience.  That's  the  way  it  is  with  you, 
Mabel."  Then  he  halted  abruptly.  He  had  never  seen 
her  face  so  ghastly  pale.  "Oh,  I  hate  to  talk  like  this  to 
you,"  he  cried,  honestly  enough. 

For  a  time  she  seemed  to  be  stunned  by  his  remarks,  and 
then  as  if  conscious  that  she  could  only  make  the  situation 
more  unendurable  she  smiled  a  little,  rang  the  bell  and 
asked  the  waiter  to  bring  in  the  black  coffee  and  changed 
the  subject.  It  relieved  him  a  good  deal  to  see  that  she 
was  not  breaking  down. 

For  some  time  they  talked  on  now,  in  a  rather  matter 
of  fact  manner.  It  was  their  first  real  bit  of  conversation 
for  days  and  they  rambled  on  to  a  dozen  subjects  each 


THE    TAKER  137 

touching  perilously  near  to  what  she  knew  must  be  brought 
out  before  she  left  him.  She  must  prove  to  him  how 
wrong  he  was,  to  save  him  from  himself  as  well  as  for  her. 
And  as  they  talked,  Vernon  realised  as  he  watched  her, 
how  pathetic  the  situation  really  was.  So  far  as  her 
mind  was  concerned,  she  was  a  help  to  him.  She  made 
his  mind  active.  What  a  pity  it  was  that  she  had  never 
attempted  to  attract  him  physically,  back  in  those  days 
when  he  had  been  so  foolish  and  na'ive  about  his  life. 

"It's  good  for  me  even  now,"  he  thought  on.  "Yet  she 
always  wants  me — just  like  the  rest.'* 

It  was  a  pity  indeed  that  he  could  not  make  her  see 
this  fact.  Though,  even  if  he  did,  she  could  not  change 
her  face.  Beauty  was  the  only  thing  that  made  the  mind 
worth  while. 

But  Mabel  was  encouraged  and  with  a  sparkle  in  her 
voice  that  had  been  lost  for  so  long,  gradually  worked  the 
conversation  around  until  she  told  him  how  he  misunder- 
stood the  sort  of  woman  who  does  not  attempt  to  control 
herself. 

"All  women  deal  in  suppression,  Leonard,"  she  said. 
"It's  a  first  instinct  with  her.  Every  emotion  she  feels  is 
checked  down  in  some  sort  of  storehouse."  She  added: 
"The  lock  and  key  of  pride  and  convention  keep  them 
shut  forever.  And  it's  only  fear — fear  of  being  honest, 
fear  of  other  people's  thoughts,  that  makes  this  thing 
called  'convention' — and  makes  them  heed  it.  Still,"  she 
thought  on — "that  woman  gets  credit  for  being  sensible 
from  just  such  men  as  you." 

She  continued  after  a  moment's  serious  thought :  "You 
see  it's  different  with  a  man,  Leonard.  When  he  discovers 
some  new  impulse  he  is  pleased ;  gives  in  to  it  and  makes 
things  easy  for  himself.  In  fact  he  only  suffers  when  his 


138  THE    TAKER 

emotions  are  denied.  When  he  lets  his  feelings  rule  him, 
most  women  give  him  credit  for  being  only  human." 

"Well,  things  work  differently  for  men  than  for  women. 
You  mustn't  forget  that,"  he  pointed  out. 

Mabel's  eyes  were  bright  now.  "Yes,  you've  said  it!" 
she  exclaimed  cynically.  "And  now,  because  I  let  you 
know  how  I  love  you,  you  don't  care  for  me  any  longer. 
You  want  me  to  fool  you." 

When  she  came  closer  and  stood  back  of  him,  Leonard 
suddenly  wished  he  could  tell  her  how  futile  it  was  to  dis- 
cuss life  like  this.  He  wished  that  he  might  say  to  her: 

"Mabel,  what's  the  use  of  our  talking?  Nobody  works 
out  life  according  to  reason  or  analysis.  Let's  go  over 
to  the  Club  and  get  a  drink." 

Yes,  he  would  have  said  this — had  Mabel — been 
Jennie. 

But  Mabel  placed  her  thin  hand  carelessly  on  his  arm, 
just  for  a  moment,  as  if  it  were  a  thoughtless  movement, 
and  saw  again  that  response  was  chained  somewhere  in 
his  soul.  So  with  an  understanding  that  told  her  to  rush 
on  while  he  was  listening,  she  said : 

"You  know,  Leonard,  while  you've  been  away  from  me 
so  much,  I've  had  plenty  of  time  to  think.  Oh,  so  much — 
about  you  and  me — and  the  way  we've  failed.  Sometimes 

I've  thought "  she  paused  to  reach  over  onto  a  little 

table  for  an  engraved  silver  match  box,  "that  we  expect 
too  much  happiness  from  life." 

She  murmured  on  meditatively.  "Ive  been  thinking 
that  maybe  the  fault  is  all  mine.  That  I  expect  too 
much." 

As  she  talked,  she  searched  his  face  for  some  evidence 
that  her  words  were  holding  him.  But  he  simply  chewed 


THE    TAKER  139 

on  his  cigar  and  said,  after  she  had  been  quiet  for  some 
time: 

"Oh,  Mabel,  Pm  all  at  sea  about  it."  Then  he  thought 
on  as  he  took  the  cigar  from  his  mouth  and  looked  at  it, 
"Maybe  life  is  just  like  a  cigar,  Mabel — it  takes  a  mighty 
good  cigar  to  make  us  enjoy  a  smoke,  yet  the  better  the 
cigar  the  worse  the  after  taste.  So  if  we  have  just  a  lit- 
tle happiness  then  we  only  have  a  little  suffering.  Maybe 
we're  just  as  well  off  this  way." 

Leonard  rose  now  and  walked  into  the  hall.  In  his 
mind  was  the  idea  that  this  last  remark  really  had  some 
truth  in  it. 

Taking  his  hat  and  coat  from  the  rack,  he  said : 

"I  guess  I'll  go  over  to  the  club,  Mabel.  Tell  the  man, 
will  you?" 

In  the  days  that  followed,  Mabel  was  continually 
racked  by  the  knowledge  that  she  must  have  some  power 
to  draw  away  from  him  if  she  wished  to  hold  him  again. 

But  her  love  for  him  controlled  her,  even  while  the 
thought  came  into  her  mind  that  she  could  not  endure 
being  cruel  or  hurting  him. 

On  one  side  she  was  conscious  that  love  for  him 
strangely  paralysed  her  desire  to  play  this  game,  and  on 
the  other,  that  if  she  held  off  from  him  he  might  not  even 
bother  about  her. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

TV  TARCY,  too,  through  association  with  Vernon,  felt 
•*•"-*•  that  she  was  learning1  a  great  deal  about  life  and 
men  in  particular.  Formerly  she  had  thought  all  success- 
ful men  strong  and  cruel  and  in  a  world  entirely  apart 
from  her  own.  And  now  she  was  suddenly  realising  that 
not  only  were  big  men,  like  Leonard  Vernon,  in  need  of 
other  people's  companionship,  but  actually  dependent 
upon  it  for  their  happiness.  Losing  many  illusions  about 
Vernon  she  became  conscious  that  something  within  her 
gave  her  command  over  him. 

On  the  Friday  following  their  ride,  Vernon  stopped  her 
and  after  seeing  that  she  was  comfortably  seated  in  his 
office,  said  to  her: 

"Marcy,  people  don't  understand.  They  think  some  of 
Us  live  behind  unsurmountable  bulwarks.  But  we  are  just 
like  everybody  else,  needing  human  sympathy  and  friends 
and  companionship." 

Touching  her  arm  gently  and  quite  thoughtlessly  as  he 
leaned  over  to  her,  he  went  on  to  tell  her  how  unbearable 
loneliness  was. 

"You  know,  little  girl,"  he  said :  "I  get  so  lonely.  And 
the  hardest  part  is  knowing  that  people  don't  understand 
this  sort  of  thing  in  a  man  who  is  so  busy.  They  don't 
understand  as  long  as  they  themselves  have  somebody, 
anybody  even,  hanging  around  them.  To  them — loneli- 
ness is  a  fanciful  notion — like  living  on  a  desert  island. 
As  long  as  they  are  safe  from  it  they  can't  imagine  it 
exists." 

140 


THE    TAKER  141 

As  he  talked,  Marcy  noticed  how  his  head  was  bowed. 
Also  he  took  her  hand  and  squeezed  it  as  if  glad  he  had 
found  some  one  to  tell  his  troubles  to.  But  he  talked  so 
low  and  quietly  she  could  not  understand  what  he  meant 
much  beyond  that  he  was  sad  and  needed  her  help. 

However,  just  as  gently,  she  squeezed  his  hand  in  re- 
turn. And  with  every  pulse,  an  increased  feeling  of  power 
pervaded  her  being. 

She  was  only  with  him  a  little  while  when  he  got  up, 
smiled,  said :  "Ah,  well,"  and  took  her  to  the  door.  But 
from  the  moment  she  reached  her  home,  a  new  era  of  hap- 
piness settled  into  her  soul. 

From  that  night  on  she  began  to  see  and  believe  that 
she  must  equip  herself  so  as  better  to  understand  all  the 
big  things  this  man  said  to  her.  She  must  be  able  to  help 
him  with  his  moods  from  now  on. 

So  she  began  to  stand  in  front  of  the  mirror  at  night 
after  Lester  went  out,  and  look  serious,  the  way  she  knew 
she  must  look  when  he  spoke  to  her.  She  began  reading 
books  and  magazines  with  little  understanding  of  their 
contents,  but  instead,  with  her  mind  wandering  to  the 
places  where  Vernon  must  be.  She  was  glad  now,  when 
she  could  sit  alone,  in  her  dim-lit  green  wall-papered  bed- 
room, and  think  of  him. 

Bashful  and  hesitating  enough,  when  she  was  in  Ver- 
non's  presence,  yet  when  away  from  him,  she  had  a  grow- 
ing sense  of  strength  and  control  over  him  that  gave  her 
much  happiness ;  while  her  yearning  mind  went  begging  in 
a  prayer  that  he  was  thinking  of  her  as  she  thought  of 
him. 

In  this  way  passed  the  days  through  to  the  end  of 
summer. 

At  times  she  felt  so  close  to  him  and  so  proud  of  his 


142  THE    TAKER 

confidences  that  she  could  hardly  keep  from  speaking 
about  him  to  every  one. 

Then  at  the  beginning  of  Fall,  Vernon  became  busy 
again  and  she  hardly  had  an  opportunity  to  see  him  be- 
yond a  casual  glance. 

At  first  she  was  hurt  that  he  should  neglect  her.  But 
one  day  he  erased  all  her  troubled  thoughts  by  calling  her 
in  and  telling  her  not  to  forget  him;  that  he  was  planning 
on  a  little  jaunt  some  afternoon  that  would  make  them 
forget  their  troubles. 

The  only  events  that  varied  the  monotony  of  her  days 
for  so  long  had  been  her  silent  walks  over  to  the  Hudson 
to  watch  the  big  white  Albany  boats  crawl  along,  or  on 
Saturday  night  when  she  brought  home  her  pay  envelope 
to  her  husband,  and  was  met  by  bitter  words  against  her 
employer. 

It  was  a  few  (days  later  that  Marcy  chanced  to  look 
into  Vernon's  office  through  the  half  opened  door,  and 
saw  him  pacing  the  room,  serious  and  quiet,  as  if  weighed 
down  by  heavy  thoughts.  Just  as  she  was  passing  he 
came  to  a  halt  and  looking  up  saw  her.  When  he  said: 
"Marcy,  come  in  for  a  moment,"  his  voice  seemed  more 
than  usually  sad. 

To  make  sure  that  he  wanted  her,  she  asked:  "Oh, 
may  I?" 

"I  want  you  to,"  he  said  earnestly,  looking  out  at  her 
and  smiling  kindly. 

But  as  soon  as  she  was  in  the  room,  he  again  started 
pacing  the  floor.  She  noticed  how  he  walked  into  the  hall 
for  a  few  steps  whenever  he  passed  the  half  opened  door. 

"Marcy,"  he  then  began,  "I  wonder  if  you  can  under- 
stand the  strange  laws  of  life  that  govern  us." 

A  bit  disappointed  that  he  should  start  in  again  on  his 


THE    TAKER  143 

big  words  and  thoughts  about  life,  she  nevertheless  was  on 
the  point  of  begging  him  to  say  whatever  he  thought, 
when  he  went  on,  talking  as  if  he  were  unaware  of  her 
presence.  "A  law,  Marcy,  that  impels  us  to  render  our- 
selves unassailable  by  having  control  and  strength  and 
then  by  the  same  process,  reduces  us  to  a  pulp  of  senti- 
ment." 

Marcy  told  herself  that  he  was  in  trouble.  He  always 
was  when  he  talked  about  life  that  way. 

She  murmured :  "Oh,  I'm  sorry  you  are  unhappy,  Mr. 
Vernon.  I  wish  I  could  do  something  to  help  you." 

Then  he  stopped  his  pacing,  and,  with  a  laugh,  sat 
down  at  the  swinging  chair  by  his  desk,  saying:  "I  guess 
you  think  I'm  peculiar,  don't  you,  Marcy?" 

She  answered :  "Oh,  no,  I  don't,"  all  the  time  wonder- 
ing how  she  could  convey  to  him  the  understanding  that 
she  knew  he  talked  this  way  to  her  only  because  he 
trusted  her. 

He  picked  up  some  papers  from  the  desk :  "Sit  there, 
Marcy."  He  pointed  to  the  chair  at  his  side.  "Unless 
you  have  something  else  to  do.  Maybe  we  can  have  a 
little  talk." 

Marcy  watched  him  closely  while  he  ran  his  eye  down 
the  column  in  front  of  him.  His  face  no  longer  seemed 
so  serious  and  thoughtful.  Rather,  it  looked  hard  from 
the  way  he  set  his  jaw.  Though  his  eyes  were  kind.  At 
last  he  said:  "Enough,  Marcy,  enough,"  quickly  folded 
the  papers  into  a  drawer,  drew  out  his  keys  and  locked  it, 
and  then  asked,  taking  her  hand  and  patting  it: 

"Well,  Marcy,  what  do  you  think  of  a  man,  running  a 
big  factory  like  this,  who  lets  little  details  disturb  him?" 

"I  know  you  must  have  a  lot  to  bother  you,"  she  has- 
tened to  say.  "People  don't  know,  do  they?" 


144  THE    TAKER 

Apparently  conscious  that  she  had  thrust  herself  into 
a  partnership  with  him,  he  confided:  "Well,  my  wife 
knows  of  our  little  automobile  party  that  we  took  that 
day." 

"Oh,  did  you  tell  her?" 

Vernon  replied:  "No,  not  exactly.  Not  until  after  a 
few  others  did.  But  it  doesn't  worry  me." 

He  looked  into  her  eyes,  and  then  at  her  well-developed 
shoulders  and  arms.  He  thought :  "How  well  formed  she 
is,  how  soft  her  mouth  is.  Just  like  a  rose  unfolding  its 
petals.  And  her  skin — just  the  right  tint  of  olive.  Her 
red  hair  makes  her  look  like  that  painting  by  Aosti."  He 
thought  on  that  if  he  had  kept  up  his  painting,  she  would 
have  been  just  the  model,  for  a  lot  of  reasons ;  that  he 
must  not  lose  her,  and  that  like  most  women,  the  dominant 
call  in  her  nature  was  maternal ;  if  she  could  mother  him, 
he  would  win  her.  He  saw  that  he  must  call  for  sympathy 
from  her. 

So  he  looked  up  at  her  face  and  said :  "But  don't  you 
feel  sorry  about  me,  little  girl,  I'm  all  right.  I  can  fight 
them  all." 

"Oh,  I  hope  that  it  was  all  right,"  she  asserted.  "I 
hope  it  didn't  hurt  anything  here  at  the  factory,  did 
it?" 

"Why,  of  course  not."  He  laughed  carelessly,  bravely. 
Then  suddenly,  he  leaned  towards  her  and  took  both  her 
hands  in  his.  "Child,"  he  said :  "You  do  a  lot  for  me.  I 
like  you.  Do  you  like  me?" 

The  thought  raced  through  Marcy's  mind  that  he  had 
never  before  pressed  her  hand  so  strangely.  Nor  was  he 
as  gentle  as  always.  She  stammered  out : 

"Why,  Mr.  Vernon,  ought  you  to  talk  like  that  to  me? 
I'm  only  one  of  the  girls." 


THE    TAKER  145 

But  he  seemed  to  ignore  her  protest  entirely  and  took 
his  key  and  unlocked  the  desk  drawer,  as  if  unconscious 
that  he  had  held  her  hand  or  that  she  had  noticed.  For  a 
moment  he  seemed  unable  to  find  what  he  wanted.  Then 
he  brought  out  a  book  with  a  worn  greenish  cover  and 
turning  to  one  of  its  pages,  read  aloud  to  her  with  clouded 
face  and  dull  voice. 

"Ye  who  have  yearned  alone 
My  grief  can  measure. 
No  friends  are  near,  and  flown 
Are  joy  and  pleasure  .  .  ." 

He  finished  with  a  rising  inflection  turned  on  the  word 
"pleasure."  "Do  you  understand  that,  Marcy?  I  guess 
there  is  just  one  thing  that  ought  to  be  added  .  .  . 
youth,  youth,  Marcy — that's  why  I'm  talking  to  you, 
that's  why  I  like  you.  You — are  youth,  Marcy — my  lost 
youth." 

Marcy  rose  from  her  chair;  looking  at  his  face  some- 
what anxiously  she  murmured,  "I  guess  I'd  better  be  go- 
ing, Mr.  Vernon." 

He  rose  with  her,  apparently  surprised  that  she  should 
still  be  so  conscious  of  herself.  At  first  he  even  seemed 
unable  to  collect  his  thoughts,  then  went  to  the  window 
and  looked  outside,  as  if  to  let  her  understand  that  he 
thought  it  was  the  gathering  dusk  that  made  her  anxious 
to  leave  him. 

After  a  bit  he  said: 

"Yes,  it's  getting  late.     You'd  better  go." 

.  .  .  After  that  Marcy  tried  to  put  him  out  of  her 
thoughts,  though  she  suffered  all  the  time  from  this  self- 
torture.  She  saw  and  understood  now  that  he  really 


146  THE    TAKER 

liked  her,  and  in  the  solitude  of  her  dreams  at  night  she 
wanted  him,  and  thought  how  wonderful  it  would  be  if  he 
should  put  his  arms  around  her,  or  kiss  her.  It  was  this 
realisation  that  made  her  stay  away  from  him;  partly 
through  fear,  mostly  through  that  vague  moral  sense  ac- 
companying youth  that  told  her  it  was  wrong  to  see  him 
again. 

It  was  a  hard  task,  indeed,  that  she  outlined  for  herself, 
for  every  thought  of  him  drew  her  irresistibly;  his  au- 
thoritative way  with  the  other  employees,  the  understand- 
ing that  of  all  the  other  girls,  he  had  singled  her  out  as  a 
confidant. 

Nor  did  she  find  any  great  peace  at  home  to  allay  the 
strain  of  these  days.  Lester,  unable  to  procure  another 
job,  was  drinking  now  and  going  deeply  into  debt,  having 
used  up  the  money  from  the  factory  savings  fund.  He 
assailed  her  again  and  again  for  not  being  able  to  influ- 
ence Vernon  in  his  behalf. 

But  Vernon  was  never  out  of  her  mind.  One  night  she 
hurried  out  of  the  factory,  to  avoid  him,  and  started  on 
her  way  home,  only  to  find  herself  seeking  a  path  on  the 
hill  back  of  the  building,  from  where  she  could  peer  down 
to  the  very  windows  of  his  office.  The  days  were  getting 
shorter  too,  so  that  now  it  was  quite  dusk  at  closing  time. 
Seeking  a  path  among  the  trees  she  gazed  down  onto  the 
lighted  windows  of  his  office  for  nearly  an  hour — the  epit- 
ome of  her  entire  thoughts  being  a  sympathetic  prayer 
that  he  would  go  home  and  not  work  so  late. 

How  the  childish  heart  swelled,  proud  of  its  secret. 
She  wandered  through  the  days,  content,  peaceful,  then 
fear-ridden  and  anxious,  sucking  up,  like  a  sponge,  every 
word  she  heard  dropped  about  him,  every  glance  he  cast 
at  her.  And  at  night,  at  rest  on  her  pillow  she  went  over 


THE    TAKER  147 

all  the  accumulated  thoughts,  the  words,  the  glances, 
.  .  .  and  enchanted  by  them  fell  into  an  ecstatic  slumber ; 
while  her  husband  dozed  close  by  her,  even  in  his  sleep 
taut  with  patient  watching,  like  a  sentinel  at  his  post. 

This  repression  extended  over  a  period  of  two  months, 
and  all  the  while  a  mighty  spirit  of  affection  and  protec- 
tive endearment  grew  within  her  being. 

Entirely  conscious  of  all  this,  Leonard  saw  that  he 
must  forbear  until  she  came  to  him  willingly.  Often,  how- 
ever, he  casually  passed  her  desk  just  to  see  her  bow  her 
head  in  work  as  long  as  he  was  near.  But  it  was  trying 
indeed  to  hold  off. 

His  experiences  in  New  York  and  the  weeks  and  months 
of  Mabel's  pathetic  quarrels  had  indeed  taught  Vernon 
certain  things.  He  had  now  the  manner  and  bearing  of 
one  who  comes  into  the  open  after  a  weary  journey  along 
some  blind  trail.  He  knew  the  expression  of  his  face  was 
less  stern  and  that  he  was  more  affable  with  his  employees. 

During  this  time  he  came  across  an  article  in  which  it 
was  stated  that  certain  rare  human  characters  possessed 
the  virtue  of  radium — a  virtue  which  enabled  them  to  af- 
fect adjacent  objects  and  to  turn  them  for  the  moment 
into  a  quality  the  same  as  themselves.  And  he  discov- 
ered that  by  smiling  and  appearing  amiable  and  gay, 
others  were  affected  and  seemed  to  beam  back  at  him  with 
the  same  spiritual  radiance.  This  he  began  to  try  at  all 
times,  with  unfailing  success.  He  became  an  alchemist  of 
life,  transforming  with  a  glance,  darkness  into  light.  He 
really  felt  that  he  had  hit  on  a  philosophy  now  that  would 
soften  any  moment  of  stress.  It  was  a  peculiar  philosophy 
too.  He  reasoned  that  within  himself,  in  the  secret  depths 
of  his  soul,  was  a  sanctuary  wherein  he  could  keep  invio- 
late his  desires  and  ambitions ;  a  confidential  place  where 


148  THE    TAKER 

he  could  store  up  all  his  impulses,  where  he  could  blush 
and  exult  and  deride  and  sorrow,  unseen  and  safely 
guarded  from  alien  eyes. 

It  was  only  his  impervious  exterior  that  the  world 
would  know  from  now  on,  he  decided,  telling  himself  that 
this  was  the  reason  men  succeeded,  that  only  the  weak  or 
stupid  lent  themselves  to  sympathy  or  calumniation. 

Only  to  imperially  garbed  youth — emblem  of  days  that 
had  seared  him  and  then  vanished,  did  Leonard  now  bow 
his  head — youth,  intangible,  unrequited,  the  symbolisa- 
tion  of  passing  time,  was  his  only  fetish.  The  ebbing  sap 
of  love  and  life  that  swelled  and  receded  in  him,  his  griefs, 
regrets,  the  wild  songs  and  their  crying  music  leaping 
forth  madly,  he  now  kept  encased  in  this  sealed  casket  of 
his  inner  self.  And  he  felt  that  no  one  knew.  Not  even 
the  devoted  Mabel,  who  seemed  so  content  to  grope  after 
the  dim  form  of  his  retreating  love. 

Then,  one  more  thing:  one  must  hold  off — become  a 
waiter — in  life.  Waiting  emphasised  everything — made 
it  pleasanter — made  it  assume  more  interesting  propor- 
tions. Beauty  was  only  a  product  of  prolonged  anticipa- 
tion. 

And  he  carried  this  to  the  point  where,  when  he  be- 
came thirsty,  after  an  hour  spent  by  one  of  the  furnaces 
in  the  mixing  room,  he  sought  his  office  and  quenched  his 
thirst  by  filling  a  tiny  wine  glass  full  of  water  a  dozen 
times,  rather  than  swallow  his  fill  from  the  large  goblet 
that  stood  on  the  oil-cloth  covered  stand. 

So  Vernon  accepted  Marcy's  silent  devotion  in  this  new 
philosophical  way,  quietly  content  to  await  her  surren- 
der, as  they  must  have  stood  by  in  olden  times  waiting  to 
see  fall  the  gates  of  the  besieged  Jericho.  She  was  in  his 
thoughts,  and  yet  apart  from  them ;  more  the  emblem  of 


THE    TAKER  149 

something  than  the  thing  itself.  Any  sense  of  obligation 
or  allegiance  to  the  girl  careened  easily  off  his  conscience. 
But  to  that  which  she  represented  and  brought  to  him — 
youth — he  gave  reverence  and  fidelity. 

With  this  understanding  he  felt  he  could  peacefully 
walk  the  pathways  of  the  world. 

Strangely  this  brought  a  queer  new  feeling  of  freedom. 

.  .  .  And  all  this  time,  Marcy  felt  in  her  the  building 
of  a  great  duty.  She  knew  that  Vernon  was  so  much 
older  than  she,  though  that  made  little  difference.  But  no 
longer  was  it  the  case  of  simply  being  Marcy  Moore,  but 
that  of  a  messenger  brought  into  the  world,  patiently 
waiting  to  give  succour  to  a  needy  one. 

Then  early  one  December  morning,  when  the  snow  was 
so  deep  that  Vernon  was  compelled  to  walk  to  the  factory, 
Marcy  met  him.  Silently  they  trudged  to  the  red  brick 
building,  and  quite  as  willingly  she  followed  him  into  his 
office. 

"Well,  Marcy,"  he  began,  "I  guess  we've  been  fools  long 
enough,  haven't  we?"  She  pathetically  reached  out  and 
touched  the  sleeves  of  his  coat  and  Vernon  saw  tears  flock 
to  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  guess  so,"  she  said. 

He  put  his  arm  around  her,  and  his  head  quite  near 
hers,  nearly  whispering:  "Dear  little  Marcy." 

Suddenly  she  seemed  unable  to  control  her  long  pent 
up  emotion.  Even  out  of  joy,  as  out  of  pain,  she  began  to 
cry,  tumultuously,  sobbing  with  deep  agony  that  shook  her 
little  body  from  head  to  foot. 

Vernon  put  his  arms  around  her,  took  her  streaked, 
pretty  face  between  his  two  hands  and  said,  again  and 
again :  "My  little  darling,  my  sweet  one." 

And  Marcy  buried  her  head  in  his  arms,  valiantly  try- 


150  THE    TAKER 

ing  to  conquer  her  feelings  under  his  caressing  protection. 

It  was  some  time  before  both  sat  back  in  their  chairs, 
Marcy  unabashed,  smiling  in  a  sweet  knowing  way,  while 
he  tried  to  return  her  endearing  glance  without  betraying 
any  trace  of  his  thoughts. 

A  little  later  he  said  to  her : 

"Well,  dear,  you  do  care  a  little  for  me,  don't  you?" 

She  looked  down  at  her  tightly  clasped  hands  and  then 
gazed  vacantly  out  of  the  window  before  she  replied :  "I 
like  you — awfully  much,  Mr.  Vernon."  It  seemed  she 
could  hardly  word  the  thought  in  his  presence.  It  was 
even  unkind  of  him  to  make  her  say  what  he  already  must 
know  so  well. 

Getting  up,  he  walked  over  to  her,  and  with  the  thought 
that  now  was  a  good  time  to  add  a  little  to  her  pity  for 
him,  braced  her  with  his  two  hands  on  her  shoulders. 
"Marcy,  look  at  me."  She  tried  to  bow  her  head  again  to 
avert  his  direct  gaze.  "No,  dear,  look  at  me,"  he  com- 
manded. "I  want  to  tell  you  something."  She  lifted  her 
head.  "Marcy — say  you  understand."  He  gazed  into 
her  eyes  with  the  most  endearing  look  he  could  muster. 
Only  after  he  saw  the  tears  forming  again,  did  he  gently 
force  her  into  the  chair  and  go  back  to  his  place  behind 
the  desk. 

He  then  said  earnestly :  "Marcy,  of  course  you  cannot 
know  how  a  man  like  me  must  feel.  Sometimes  I  feel  like 
crying  out;  'God  in  Heaven,  will  I  never  dare  to  love  just 
for  fear  of  losing  it?' '  He  smiled  dejectedly  at  her  as  he 
talked,  although  the  conviction  suddenly  dazed  him  that 
now,  and  for  the  first  time  in  his  whole  life,  he  really  was 
meaning  what  he  was  saying  to  a  woman.  Somehow,  here 
he  could  dare  expose  himself  without  covering  his  words 


THE    TAKER  151 

with  false  wings — so  that  he  might  fly  to  a  retreat  when 
necessary. 

And  Marcy  replied,  quickly,  longingly: 

"Well,  you  won't  ever  lose  mine." 

She  looked  at  him,  awed  by  the  mysterious  way  in  which 
he  spoke,  but  listening  attentively,  even  in  her  misery, 
alert  that  he  should  not  find  her  lacking  in  understanding. 
And  Vernon  continued,  talking  as  much  to  the  pen  which 
he  kept  twisting  between  his  fingers,  as  he  did  to  her. 
Now,  as  if  a  curtain  had  been  drawn,  it  seemed  he  must 
only  and  faithfully  word  what  he  knew  to  be  the  truth  in 
his  nature.  It  was  as  if  Honesty  were  making  a  first  ap- 
pearance on  the  stage  of  his  brain. 

"Yes,  it  is  to  those  unacquainted  with  life  that  life  holds 
no  perplexing  problems,  Marcy."  He  went  on  to  argue 
that  it  was  of  no  use  trying  to  control  feelings  by  rule, 
that  temperament  was  a  matter  of  personal  equation. 
"You  know,"  he  continued,  "after  all  these  years,  Marcy, 
I  have  come  to  see  that  one  must  not  try  to  keep  a  set 
standard,  and  that  we  cannot  shut  off  what  we  think  and 
feel  any  more  than  we  can  tell  ourselves  when  to  love  or 
hate."  He  added :  "And  another  thing  I've  learnt — is  to 
look  at  life  through  your  own  eyes,  paying  no  attention 
to  what  other  people  think  or  say.  That's  the  big  thing 
to  learn  in  life,  Marcy." 

Vernon  talked  to  her  as  if  he  had  given  profound 
thought  to  the  subject,  knowing  that  she  was  not  following 
his  words.  He  did  not  even  trouble  to  interpret  their  full 
meaning,  himself.  But  it  was  interesting  to  watch  her 
eyes,  see  her  admiration  for  him  light  them — so  he  talked 
on,  like  a  seer,  a  sage  giving  out  wisdom.  His  bearing 
was  like  that  of  a  Buddha  from  the  Ganges,  invested  with 


152  THE    TAKER 

life — the  grandiose  expression  of  anguish  in  a  deeply 
stirred  soul. 

Then  he  rose  and  went  to  the  window  while  he  talked, 
his  arms  folded,  his  eyes  glancing  outside  through  the 
frosted  panes,  on  to  the  sparkling  snow.  However,  he  did 
not  forego  watching  the  effect  of  his  words  upon  her; 
while  Marcy  sat  silently  regarding  him,  with  eyes  sending 
a  message  which  he  easily  understood,  eyes  which  said, 
"Oh,  you  talk  so  wonderfully.  You  are  so  good  to  think 
I  understand  all  you  say.  You  big,  wonderful  man." 

There  was  an  interruption  when  a  knock  came  at  the 
door  and  the  whiteheaded  clerk  from  the  waiting  room 
came  in  with  a  package  of  letters. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Vernon,"  he  said,  his  eyes  turning 
on  Marcy. 

Vernon  grunted  out  a  gruff  "good-morning,"  adding 
coldly:  "Shut  the  door  after  you." 

When  the  clerk  went  out  Vernon  walked  over  to  his 
desk,  and  slowly,  absentmindedly,  as  if  his  thoughts  were 
far  distant,  began  sorting  the  letters  and  papers  the  man 
had  left.  As  he  placed  them  and  opened  some,  he  talked 
on,  in  staccato  fashion,  punctuating  his  words  according 
to  the  importance  of  each  letter. 

"How  old  are  you,  Marcy?"  he  asked,  suddenly  break- 
ing a  long  winding  comment  on  life. 

"I'm  eighteen,"  she  replied  quickly. 

Gently,  Vernon  studied  her  and  asked  if  she  had  much 
time  to  think. 

"Oh,  of  course,  I  have,"  she  answered.  "I'm  poor. 
Poor  people  have  more  time  to  think  than  rich  people." 

He  looked  at  her  steadily.  "Do  you  think  I  have  much 
time  to  think,  Marcy?" 

"Well,   I  think  it's  different  with  you.      You  aren't 


THE    TAKER  153 

happy.  If  you  were  as  rich  as  you  are  and  happy  too,  I 
don't  think  you'd  want  to  think,  much.  I  know  you 
wouldn't." 

Apparently  desirious  of  getting  better  acquainted  with 
her  views,  Vernon  said: 

"Marcy,  rich  people  have  to  believe  themselves  happy, 
at  any  rate.  But  there  must  always  be  some  real  cause 
for  happiness,  just  the  same,  some  cause  like  love  or  art." 
He  looked  fondly  at  her,  adding,  "You  can't  buy  those 
things  with  money,  you  know."  He  found  himself  to  be 
arguing  the  matter  as  much  for  himself  as  for  her. 

Marcy  thought  for  some  little  time. 

"I  don't  think  you  could  buy  love,"  she  pointed  out. 
"You  just  have  to  feel  that,  don't  you?" 

The  words  bred  out  of  her  childish  convictions  came 
easily  and  sensing  the  mystic  spark  of  intelligence  in  her 
wondering  mind,  there  rose  in  Vernon  a  thought  that  un- 
der his  tutelage,  it  easily  could,  and  must  burst  into  a 
glorious  flame. 

This  thought  was  coupled  with  another;  that  if  he 
would  make  their  liaison  attractive  he  must  create  its 
glamour  by  holding  her  back  from  giving  in  too  readily. 

He  thought  on  as  he  looked  out  of  the  window : 

"It's  no  fault  of  mine.  Besides,  I've  not  the  years  to 
play  with  any  more !" 

But  he  wondered  why  he  had  never  before  been  aware 
of  her  fruitful  effort  to  appear  more  womanly,  her  man- 
ner of  holding  her  head  erect,  her  quaint  way  of  lifting  her 
chin;  he  wondered  why  he  had  never  marked  the  perfect 
outlines  of  her  slender  body  and  the  way  they  settled  into 
the  long  lines  gently  curving  from  her  waist  to  her  knee ; 
then  the  depths  of  her  limpid  brown  eyes,  the  wonderful 
texture  of  her  skin. 


154  THE    TAKER 

He  wondered  on — unconsciously  tautening  the  lines 
stretched  over  the  abyss  of  his  emotions. 

And  over  that  line,  a  tight-rope  walker  on  the  road  to 
Destiny,  he  began  to  tread  his  way. 

"Marcy,"  he  began  .  .  .  the  rhythmic  striding  to- 
wards her  gained  speed  while  the  thought  struck  him  that 
it  was  foolish  to  hold  back  any  longer. 

"Marcy !" 

His  hand  reached  out  as  he  stood  studying  her.  He 
looked  into  her  staring  eyes.  His  hand  folded  over  her 
trembling  fingers. 

"Marcy  .  .  ." 

Her  bewilderment  grew  apace  with  the  tightening  of  his 
grasp.  For  a  moment  she  could  only  look  at  him,  trans- 
fixed, her  eyes  gaping  wide.  Then  she  tore  loose  from 
him,  crying: 

"Why,  Mr.  Vernon!  What  are  you  doing?  What's 
the  matter  with  you  ?" 

In  another  moment  control  was  blinded  and  he 
frenziedly  drew  the  trembling  girl  to  him,  and  with  a  mad 
abandon  kissed  her  forehead,  her  neck,  her  lips.  The 
cataclysmic  proportions  of  his  desire  for  her  went  now  be- 
yond his  control.  For  only  a  moment  he  controlled  him- 
self, as  he  saw  a  certain  terror  rise  to  Marcy's  face.  Then 
his  hands  sought  her  arms,  her  shoulders,  her  breasts. 

"I  love  you,  little  girl,"  he  cried  savagely.  There  was 
agony  in  his  hoarse  words.  "I  can't  help  it.  You  are  so 
beautiful." 

A  wave  of  wild  longing  and  (desire  swept  over  him.  With 
eyes  closed  and  lips  compressed,  suddenly  he  became  a 
puppet,  beyond  thought,  responding  to  the  strings  of 
some  dormant  impulse,  some  savage  passion  beyond  his 
own  will. 


THE    TAKER  155 

And  just  as  all  his  passion  and  love  hunger  were  re- 
leased, just  so  suddenly  was  thrown  off  all  the  mental  and 
physical  torpor  that  had  held  Marcy  pliable  and  unre- 
sisting. She  became  ablaze,  vindictive  with  anger  and  re- 
sentment— youth's  innate  cry  for  freedom. 

"How  dare  you?  I  hate  you!  I  hate  you!"  she 
screamed,  her  eyes  flashing  as  she  tried  to  pull  herself  out 
of  his  arms. 

And  not  until  she  was  out  in  the  hall  and  running  from 
him  did  Vernon,  trembling  and  amazed,  move  towards  the 
door. 

Then  for  a  long  time  he  stood  inert,  stunned,  gazing  at 
the  door  through  which  she  had  run  from  him ;  only  after 
many  minutes  did  he  feebly  grope  his  way  back  to  the 
chair  at  his  desk,  and  drop  his  head  between  the  arms  he 
had  stretched  across  the  paper-littered  surface. 

"Oh,  you  fool — you  fool,"  he  moaned. 


CHAPTER 

LESTER  was  just  leaving  the  house  as  Marcy  ran  up 
to  the  porch.    Immediately  the  boy  saw  that  she  was 
in  a  highly  excited  state.    As  she  reached  his  side  he  saw, 
too,  that  she  had  been  crying. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?"  he  exclaimed.  "Why  ain't 
you  at  the  factory?" 

"Oh,  Lester,"  she  cried.  "Something  terrible  has  hap- 
pened." 

She  ran  into  the  dining-room  off  the  porch,  with  Lester 
close  after  her. 

"Now,  what's  the  matter  ?"  he  demanded. 

For  a  time  her  quickened  breathing  seemed  to  smother 
all  ability  for  expression,  then  she  said: 

"I — Lester,  I  can't  go  back  to  the  factory  any  more." 

The  husband  listened  to  her,  sensing  in  her  words  some- 
thing deeper  than  the  anguish  of  disappointment.  It  was 
as  grief  brought  on  by  an  irreparable  loss.  He  took  her 
hand,  saying:  "Now,  now,  quiet  down  and  tell  me  what's 
up." 

When  she  kept  on  sobbing,  he  shook  her  gently.  "Now, 
tell  me  what's  the  matter.  Tell  me  why  they  fired  you." 

And  Marcy,  even  in  her  heart-sore  misery,  became  con- 
scious that  he  would  be  angered  only  because  of  his  selfish 
interest,  which  might  carry  him  to  the  point  of  harming 
the  man  who  had  assailed  her.  So  she  held  out  before  his 
blunt  and  rough  demand  for  an  explanation,  only  moan- 
ing, "Oh,  everything's  terrible.  I  can't  tell  you,  I  can't 
tell  you." 

156 


THE    TAKER  157 

Her  husband  surveyed  her  from  head  to  foot  derisively, 
and  then  taunted  her  with  the  words :  "So  you  lost  your 
job,  did  you?  Well,  I  knew  it  would  happen."  His  jaws 
set  together  treacherously.  "You  couldn't  hold  down  a 
job — you  ain't  got  sense  enough." 

Smitten  by  the  injustice  of  his  accusation,  Marcy  lost 
all  sight  of  her  idea  to  protect  Vernon.  She  cried  back : 
"I — I  can  hold  the  job  all  right.  It's  not  that.  It's — 

It's "  just  in  time  she  caught  herself — "Oh,  I  can't 

tell  you." 

She  tried  to  rise  from  the  chair  in  which  she  had  thrown 
herself  and  run  for  shelter  into  the  green-carpeted  bed- 
room, but  he  firmly  took  hold  of  her  and  pushed  her  back 
against  the  table,  angrily  demanding,  "Now,  look  here, 
what's  the  matter?  Out  with  it,  quick!" 

And  when  she  said:  "He — Mr.  Vernon — tried  to — to 
hold  me,"  a  wave  of  remorse  swept  through  her  that  told 
her  she  was  a  coward,  a  traitor,  to  the  sacred  cause. 

In  that  moment,  even  as  the  hot  tears  coursed  down  her 
cheeks,  she  saw  that  she  must  defend  Vernon  against  the 
red  bloated  face  so  madly  distorted.  Like  a  flash  she  also 
saw  that  now  would  be  revealed  the  silent  lie,  both  to  her 
husband  and  Vernon,  that  she  had  carried  with  her 
through  the  months.  The  truth  about  her  marriage  would 
come  out.  Vernon  would  hate  her  for  not  having  told  him, 
and  her  husband  would  attack  her  for  the  same  reason. 

For  a  time  Marcy  was  crazed  by  these  thoughts,  and 
Lester  saw  her  look  about  the  room  in  a  wild-eyed  search 
as  if  trying  to  seek  some  intelligence  that  would  tell  her 
what  to  do  in  this  crisis.  When  she  realised  this,  it 
came  to  her  that  she  must  get  to  Vernon  and  warn  him. 
She  quickly  ran  out  to  the  porch.  He  was  after  her  on 
the  instant.  "Where  are  you  going?"  he  called. 


158  THE    TAKER 

But  she  ran  on  and  was  a  half  block  down  the  street  be- 
fore he  reached  her  side. 

When  he  had  her  by  the  arms  he  said,  with  a  lack  of 
anger  that  surprised  her:  "Look  here,  now,  don't  be 
crazy.  I  don't  care  about  Vernon.  I  was  mad  just  for  a 
minute  back  there,  but  I've  been  thinking  about  it — it's  all 
right — if  he  likes  you.  Don't  you  see?" 

Stopping  short,  Marcy  heard  his  breathless  words  in  a 
maze  of  perplexity. 

"I  don't — understand,"  she  gasped. 

"I  mean — I  mean — I  don't  care,  Marcy.  That  it's  all 
right — you  and  the  boss.  Why,  it's  just  what  I  wanted 
him  to  do.  Don't  you  see?"  He  dropped  his  head  just  a 
little  and  pushed  his  red  tie  in  place  under  the  soft  cotton 
collar,  as  he  confessed,  "Why,  he'll  give  me  a  big  j  ob  now, 
the  one  I've  wanted.  He  can't  refuse  you  now,  see." 

As  they  started  walking  down  the  hill  and  she  had  re- 
covered somewhat  from  her  bewilderment,  he  said  to  her, 
"Don't  you  see  what  I'm  driving  at?"  He  took  her  arm. 
"Why  do  you  suppose  I  let  you  waste  the  last  five 
months  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  murmured.  There  was  in  her  mind 
little  else  than  the  idea  that  now,  for  a  time  at  least,  Ver- 
non was  safe. 

Her  husband  went  on  decisively :    "Well,  that's  why." 

Marcy  walked  silently  at  his  side.  There  was  only  one 
thought  in  her  mind.  She  must  get  to  Vernon,  quickly  as 
possible,  and  say  to  him :  "Oh,  forgive  me,  please  forgive 
me." 

She  was  brought  back  to  reality  by  her  husband's  rough 
hold  on  her  arm  and  his  remark :  "Say,  what's  the  matter 
with  you?  Why  don't  you  answer  me?" 

"What  did  you  say?"  she  asked. 


THE    TAKER  159 

"Why,  I  was  saying  it  was  all  right." 

Marcy  searched  his  face  in  surprise.  "You  mean  you 
don't  care,  Lester — if  he — Mr.  Vernon  is — nice  to  me?" 
She  was  conscious  that  in  this  part  of  Hastings  she  and 
Lester  were  known  and  that  she  must  be  careful  so  that 
those  behind  the  shutters  would  not  know  they  were  quar- 
relling. 

Lester  looked  at  her  and  gave  a  sly  chuckle.  "Why, 
you  understand,  don't  you?  Be  nice  to  you?  Why,  that's 
what  I  wanted  him  to  do  all  along.  He  knows  what  he's 
doing.  He  knows  you  are  married.  Now,  go  back  and 
tell  him  you  are  sorry  and  maybe — be  a  little  sweet  to  him 
for  a  while." 

Marcy  stared  at  him.  It  was  some  time  before  the  real 
meaning  of  what  he  had  said  penetrated  her  confused 
mind.  Then  she  burst  out,  feverishly  gathering  vindictive 
force  as  she  went  on,  as  if  she  were  picking  up  the  frag- 
ments of  her  misplaced  anger  with  Vernon.  When  she  saw 
the  boy's  grinning,  sheepish  face  harden  to  sneering  lines, 
she  prayed  for  strength  to  hurt  him. 

"I  know  now,  I  see  what  you  mean.  And  you  are  my 
Jiusband.  Why,  Mr.  Vernon  is  an  angel  beside  you,  and  I 
like  him,  too.  I  tell  you  that  right  now.  I  do  like  him.  I 
love  him.  I  don't  care  if  the  whole  world  knows  it.  No- 
body ever  made  me  think  before,  and  teach  me  nice  things 
the  way  he  has.  He  has  been  good  to  me — just  like  a 
father — while  you — you  have  been  trying  to  use  me — and 
him." 

Moore  grabbed  her  arm,  trying  to  hush  her  words  while 
they  were  on  the  street  and  might  be  heard. 

But  she  was  not  to  be  stopped,  even  losing  herself  in  a 
greater  hatred  for  his  scheme.  She  went  on,  bursting  into 
one  torrent  of  indignation  after  another,  speaking  as 


160  THE    TAKER 

though  her  anger  had  torn  off  the  covering  from  all  her 
previous  stupor  and  childishness. 

"You  devil!  You  thought  you  could  use  me,  didn't 
you?  Well,  I  hate  you!  You  are  just  low  and  mean. 
That's  all.  You  don't  know  anything  about  nice  things, 
about  how  wonderful  it  is  to  be  intelligent  and  read,  and 
everything.  All  you  know  about  is  drinking  and  gam- 
bling. Then "  this  was  the  hardest  for  her  to  word — 

"You  never  wanted  me  to  be  happy  anyway.  You  know 
that  you  fought  with  me  about  a  baby.  And  I  know  that's 
not  right.  Oh,  I've  been  thinking  all  right,  too.  I  know 
God  never  meant  us  to  be  like  that.  That's  why  I  hate  you 
more  than  anything  else.  You  don't  know  how  bad  that 
made  me  feel.  I'm  not  a  child  any  more.  I'm  a  woman. 
And  women  were  meant  for  something." 

Her  husband  offered  no  defence,  just  listening  to  her  in 
gaping  surprise.  When  she  suddenly  turned  and  ran 
from  him  he  followed  her  slowly,  automatically,  wondering 
where  she  was  going,  what  she  really  meant  by  all  the 
crazy  things  she  had  said  to  him. 

Within  a  minute  she  was  a  block  away  from  him,  tear- 
ing along  like  some  wild  young  animal  running  from  a 
hunter.  And  as  the  boy  followed,  his  disordered  mind 
conveyed  to  him  the  intelligence  that  something  was  being 
lost,  that  something  was  going  from  him  that  he  could 
never  get  back. 

Marcy  ran  all  the  way  to  her  father's  house,  her  hat  in 
her  hand,  her  shining  hair  loosened  about  her  shoulders 
and  hanging  lustrous  in  the  sunlight.  While  her  husband 
stalked  after  her,  like  some  heavy  animal  bent  on  revenge. 
He  was  angered  now,  mumbling  as  he  went :  "I'll  teach  her 
a  lesson  she  won't  forget." 

Once  he  called  to  her,  "Marcy,  Marcy."    And  when  she 


THE    TAKER  161 

did  not  heed  him  he  caught  up  with  her  by  an  extra  effort 
and  grasped  her  arm.  She  tore  loose  and  actually  out- 
ran him  after  that. 

Near  her  father's  house,  Marcy  was  a  half  block  ahead 
of  him,  and  when  she  reached  the  weather-scarred  cottage 
she  did  not  stop  to  knock  at  the  door  and  call,  but  opened 
it  and  plunged  inside. 

Neil  was  putting  on  his  hat  and  at  her  first  glance,  al- 
though she  had  seen  him  only  the  day  before,  he  was 
hardly  recognisable  with  his  cowed  and  bent  figure.  In 
that  moment  the  effect  of  his  months  of  lay-off  was  woe- 
fully apparent.  His  face  was  yellowish  grey,  his  eyes 
watery  red  and  puffed  from  heavy  drinking. 

Marcy  ran  quickly  to  his  side. 

"Oh,  father,"  she  cried. 

The  man  drew  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  quickly 
asked:  "What's  up?" 

That  she  should  confront  him,  so  troubled,  did  not  ap- 
pear to  give  him  any  pleasure.  Instead,  he  seemed  an- 
gered that  his  departure  should  be  interrupted.  It  was 
only  after  she  had  fallen  into  a  chair  and  buried  her  head 
in  her  arms  on  the  table  that  he  asked :  "What's  the  mat- 
ter, Marcy?" 

She  broke  loose  now.    "Oh,  father,  I'm  so  unhappy." 

He  walked  over  to  her  side.  "What's  the  matter? 
You've  been  all  right,  right  along."  He  questioned  again, 
just  as  Lester  walked  in  through  the  open  door,  bursting 
out,  as  he  entered,  "What's  she  told  you?" 

Neil  took  off  his  hat  and,  looking  at  Lester  and  then  at 
Marcy,  angrily  threw  it  on  the  table. 

Neither  one  answered  him  for  some  time,  until  the  boy 
started  to  explain  by  saying:  "Why,  she's  just  gone 
crazy,  that's  all." 


162  THE    TAKER 

Then  Marcy  broke  in,  crying  out  wildly:  "Oh,  father, 
he's  a  devil.  He  was  trying  to  make  Mr.  Vernon  like  me. 
And  then  get  him  in  trouble,  so  he  could  have  a  big  job." 
Her  voice  choked  as  she  went  on,  looking  from  one  to  the 
other,  as  she  spoke:  "That's  what  he  was  doing.  He's 
just  low  and  mean.  He  don't  care  for  me.  And  I  hate 
him— I  do,  I  do." 

Marcy's  glance  now  settled  on  her  father's  face,  search- 
ing his  expression  for  an  answer  to  her  appeal.  But  her 
agony  of  mind  was  not  eased.  A  queer  look  of  cunning 
pleasure  spread  over  his  screwed-up  countenance. 

The  old  man  rather  leisurely  sat  down  on  a  chair  which 
he  drew  up  beside  her.  Beginning  slowly,  as  if  there  was 
pleasure  in  hearing  the  words  he  asked:  "Did  you — say 
that  Vernon  likes  you?"  In  the  instant  the  hatred  for  his 
employer  stood  out  palpably.  "Tell  me,  does  he  like  you  ? 
Does  he  see  you?  What's  he  done?" 

Marcy  shrank  back.    "Father !" 

He  went  on,  "What's  he  done,  Marcy?" 

The  girl  rose  from  her  chair.  His  manner  and  expres- 
sion conveyed  to  her  the  message  that  he  was  not  in  sym- 
pathy with  her,  that  he  even  shared  some  of  the  desires 
her  husband  had  worded. 

With  a  glance,  Marcy's  tearful  eyes  took  in  the  faces 
of  the  two  men.  Then  without  another  word,  she  turned 
from  them  and  walked  quickly  toward  the  stairway  that 
led  to  the  garret-like  chamber  she  had  occupied  before  her 
marriage.  That  she  must  get  away  to  her  own  thoughts 
was  the  only  coherent  property  of  her  mind.  As  she 
closed  the  door  after  her  the  two  men  below  heard  a  sigh 
as  of  pain — as  if  she  had  been  hurt  too  much  by  them  to 
protest. 

Then  Neil  turned  to  Lester. 


THE    TAKER  163 

"Say,"  he  said,  "tell  me  what's  happened." 

The  boy  smiled,  and  told  himself  it  would  be  easy  to 
get  Neil  on  his  side.  He  began  slowly: 

"Well,  Neil,  you  see  it's  like  this.  Me  and  Marcy  ain't 
been  getting  along  so  terribly  well  together,  though  you 
ain't  seemed  to  notice  it.  That's  the  reason  you  ain't 
seen  us  together  for  some  time,  I  guess.  She's  an  all  right 
girl,  but  she's  got  lots  to  learn  yet.  You  know  me.  I 
ain't  the  kind  that  stays  around  making  love  all  the  time.'* 
He  added  thoughtfully,  "But  she's  funny  that  way." 

He  stepped  carefully  into  further  explanation.  Never 
before  had  he  worded  his  thought  about  Marcy.  He  went 
on  as  the  father  listened  keenly  to  every  word. 

"Anyway,  you  remember  when  she  got  the  job  over  at 
the  factory  ?  It  was  after  you  and  me  got  laid  off.  Well, 
since  that  time  she's  sort  of  changed.  She  don't  care  so 
much  for  the  kind  of  things  you  and  me  can  give  her. 
Why,"  he  added  proudly,  "you  know  any  of  the  other 
girls  here  would  be  glad  to  do  as  well  as  she  has  done.  I 
know  because  I've  talked  to  some  of  them  about  it. 
They've  all  noticed  how  different  Marcy  has  acted,  too. 
Why,  she's  been  acting  as  if  she  was  better  than  they 
are."  He  continued  apologetically,  "Of  course,  I  am  not 
kicking,  you  understand.  I'm  just  saying  it's  Vernon 
that's  been  getting  funny  ideas  into  her  head." 

Rambling  along,  he  talked  as  if  he  were  arguing  in  his 
own  mind  the  reason  for  Marcy's  queer  action ;  when  Neil 
stopped  him  entirely,  saying: 

"Look  here,  boy.  You  told  her  to  get  in  with  Vernon  ift 
she  could,  didn't  you?" 

"Well,"  Moore  drawled.  "I  told  her  to  be  decent  to 
him." 

"What'd  you  think  that  would  do?" 


164  THE    TAKER 

The  boy  hesitated  before  he  answered. 

"Well,  I  did  think  if  he  liked  her  a  little  bit,  it  mightn't 
be  so  hard  for  me  to  get  a  big  job  back." 

"Ain't  you  jealous?" 

Lester  pondered  over  an  answer,  wondering  if  he  should 
let  Neil  know  his  actual  feelings.  At  last,  deciding  that  it 
would  be  wise  to  show  he  believed  in  Marcy,  he  laughed 
out,  carelessly: 

"Oh,  I  never  thought  of  that.    I  guess  I  know  Marcy." 

Neil's  face  lightened.  "But  you  see  it  ain't  so  easy  to 
get  your  job,  is  it?" 

"She  hasn't  worked  it  yet,"  Moore  pointed  out. 

As  he  saw  the  look  of  satisfaction  spread  over  the  old 
man's  face,  the  boy  exclaimed,  "You  don't  act  as  if  you 
minded  if  I  did  use  Marcy  a  little." 

Neil  did  not  answer  him.  Instead,  he  arose  from  the 
chair  and  heavily  began  pacing  the  floor.  When  he 
turned,  Moore  noticed  his  face  was  hard  and  set. 

"Mind? — Mind?"  he  repeated  derisively.  His  mouth 
distorted  with  bitterness,  his  lower  jaw  dropped.  As  he 
began  talking  in  little  more  than  a  whisper,  the  boy  was 
greatly  relieved. 

"Why,  it's  our  only  chance  to  get  even  with  him — make 
him  suffer.  Don't  you  see  that's  the  game  between  us 
poor  and  the  rich.  They  take  whatever  they  can  that  be- 
longs to  us.  But  you  watch.  He'll  have  to  pay  after- 
wards." 

For  a  time,  Lester  restlessly  watched  the  embittered 
man.  Then,  deciding  it  would  be  easier  for  him  to  think 
away  some  place  by  himself,  he  suddenly  turned,  and 
walked  out  of  the  house. 

At  the  gate  he  stopped  for  some  minutes,  then  struck 
off  to  an  intersecting  street  that  he  knew  led  into  a  field 


THE    TAKER  165 

path  along  the  river.  As  he  cut  his  way  through  the  vir- 
gin snow,  his  face  became  red  from  the  fever  of  his 
thoughts  and  trickling  lines  of  sweat  ran  down  to  his 
collar.  It  was  not  until  he  had  gained  the  top  of  a  long 
hill  mounting  like  a  sentinel  over  the  river  below  that  he 
was  able  calmly  to  go  over  the  situation. 

Here  he  stood  watching  the  mist  across  the  river  which 
made  a  fine  blue  line  at  the  opposite  shore.  The  silvery 
ribbon  of  the  Hudson  glistened  before  his  eyes  like  a 
crawling  snake.  But  it  was  the  peaceable  whiteness  of  the 
ground  all  about  him  that  affected  him  most.  Suddenly 
life  became  important  to  him. 

The  wind  was  blowing.  The  whisper  of  it  came  through 
the  trees  with  a  gushing  sound,  like  falling  water.  Some- 
how it  had  been  a  long  time,  he  realised,  since  he  had  been 
aware  of  the  wind  or  things  like  that. 

"What'll  I  do?"  he  thought. 

With  long  strides,  he  began  walking  again,  passing  out 
of  the  snow-covered  hill  tops  to  an  open  road. 

And  soon,  determination  bivouacked  into  his  soul  an  in- 
finite content. 

It  was  simple  enough.  He  would  let  Vernon  have 
Marcy — up  to  a  certain  point.  And  then  make  a  demand 
on  him  while  Vernon  was  in  an  anxious  state.  Women 
were  only  meant  to  be  used  anyway.  Hadn't  Vernon  got- 
ten his  start  that  way,  when  he  married  the  boss's  daugh- 
ter !  Didn't  he  use  her  and  then  throw  her  down !  For  a 
minute  he  had  forgotten  that. 

He'd  kill  Vernon  probably  and  they'd  never  get  him  for 
doing  it.  It  would  be  Vernon  who  would  never  tramp 
through  the  snow  again. 

Strangely,  for  the  first  time  a  great  jealousy  was  build- 


166  THE    TAKER 

ing  itself  in  him.  He  saw  Vernon's  arm  around  Marcy's 
beautiful  waist. 

.  .  .  The  while  Marcy  lay  in  the  attic  room,  her  head 
buried  in  a  hot  pillow,  her  thoughts  filled  with  pictures  of 
Vernon  and  of  the  different  times  they  had  been  together. 

She  wondered  if  God  would  be  good  to  her  and  ever  let 
her  be  happy  again. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

T  T  was  during  this  period  that  Mabel,  while  searching 
•*•  through  the  library,  came  across  a  passage  in  a  novel 
which  penetrated  into  her  senses  like  some  sharp  instru- 
ment but  which  suddenly  made  it  easier  for  her  to  go  on 
and  endure  all  of  Vernon's  increasing  neglect. 
She  came  across  these  lines : 

"Souls  shrivel  up  in  great  extremes  of  pain  and  sorrow,  and 
issue  forth  as  diamond  points,  to  engrave  wondrous  images  on 
the  world." 

All  day  she  was  immersed  in  this  story,  a  tale  of  two  sis- 
ters, the  elder  of  which  was  a  creature  of  unhappiness, 
even  as  she  was.  In  this  fictitious  person,.  Mabel  found  a 
real  companion.  "*  The  barrenness  of  her  life  was  eased  by 
knowing  that  there  were  other  women  who  were  suffering. 

It  was  from  this  point  that  events  seemed  to  shape 
themselves  toward  a  climax,  too. 

Then,  at  night,  Leonard  came  in,  remorseful  and  sor- 
rowful. Without  preparing  her  for  what  was  to  follow, 
he  stopped  her  in  the  library  and  after  being  there  silently 
for  a  moment,  said: 

"Mabel,  Fve  been  thinking  hard  all  day  to-day.  Now 
let's  look  at  this  thing  in  the  right  way.  You  are  wrong 
in  blaming  me.  Why  don't  you  realise  that  we  both  blun- 
dered and  that  neither  you  nor  I  can  change  this  strange 
business  of  life?  I  know  my  mistakes  and  know  I  can't 
help  suffering  for  them.  But  yours  is  more  a  question  of 

167 


168  THE    TAKER 

judgment,  while  I  have  no  control  over  mine.  Your  mis- 
take is  the  mistake  of  most  women.  They  think  that  they 
must  hold  certain  places,  certain  secret  recesses  away 
from  their  husbands — never  revealing  themselves  entirely. 
They  have  an  idea  that  true  intimacy  is  a  dangerous 
thing;  that  only  the  glamour  of  the  unknown  keeps  up 
love.  If  you  remember,  you  were  that  way  with  me  before 
we  married."  He  broke  off  restlessly.  "No,  Mabel,  I  tell 
you,  if  any  woman  wants  to  be  attractive  to  the  man  she 
wants  she  can't  have  more  allegiance  to  her  pride  than  to 
her  feelings  for  him.  You  see  she  only  loves  herself  when 
she's  that  way." 

Mabel  broke  in  on  his  contemplation :  "Please  sit  down, 
Leonard,"  she  said.  "I  do  want  so  much  to  talk  to  you." 
As  he  hesitated  she  continued,  "You  see,  you  are  wording 
exactly  what  I  said  to  you  the  other  day.  You're  going 
through  the  same  self-dissecting  process,  too — that  you 
were  undergoing  when  we  first  met." 

She  pondered  for  a  moment. 

"Leonard,  I  feel  that  there  is  a  part  of  you  which  makes 
you — how  can  I  say  it — recoil,  or  coil  up  within  yourself. 
It  is  as  if  you  were  living  with  a  second  self — an  enemy  of 
yours.  It  even  shows  on  you  physically  sometimes.  I 
just  feel  as  if — so  often  the  things  that  you  say  and  do, 
are  not  you — but  this  other  person.  Leonard,"  she  looked 
away  as  she  said  softly,  "I  just  want  to  save  you  from 
him." 

But  matters  were  helped  very  little  by  trying  to  argue 
with  Leonard  and  to  prove  to  him  the  tragedy  of  his  treat- 
ment of  her. 

During  the  following  days,  she  suffered  terribly,  though 
to  keep  this  knowledge  from  her  friends  she  cultivated  the 
habit  of  retaining  the  same  expression  on  her  face  at  all 


THE    TAKER  169 

times — an  expression  that  was  neither  gay  nor  sad,  rather 
one  of  tense  immobility  with  no  story  of  her  suffering  in 
her  eyes.  It  was  only  when  she  laughed  at  some  trivial 
thing  that  there  could  be  discerned  the  pain  she  was  un- 
dergoing. 

And  she  gave  no  hint  of  her  troubles  to  either  her 
mother  or  sister,  Mildred,  who  had  married  and  moved  to 
Long  Island.  It  was  only  to  a  diary,  written  in  a  small 
precious  hand  that  she  poured  out  all  her  heart's  misery. 
To  this  little  leather-covered  volume  she  seemed  content  to 
confide  without  pride  or  reason. 

The  morning  after  her  talk  with  Leonard  while  still  in 
her  dressing  gown  she  wrote  the  following  confession: 

"I  don't  know  why  I  write  all  this  to  you — I,  who  have 
never  talked  to  any  one  about  myself.  But  I  think  it  will 
make  little  difference  to  you.  You  have  already  listened  to 
so  many  of  my  confidences. 

"Things  seem  darker  than  ever  for  me  at  present,  I  am  a 
little  afraid.  When  one  keeps  one's  feelings  pent  up  so  long 
one  becomes  bitter  towards  the  world.  I  believe  I  would 
rather  die  first.  I  want  to  believe.  That's  what  life  is  any- 
way. Belief!  Blind  belief,  if  you  will. 

"I  am  fighting  so  hard.  I  want  to  be  happy.  I  want  to 
think  of  the  future  as  being  something  cheerful. 

"But  he  leaves  me  alone  without  a  word  and  something 
within  me  keeps  on  crying:  'What's  the  use  of  hoping?'  Who 
was  ever  really  happy  in  this  world? 

"Oh,  why  can't  a  woman  ever  dare  to  let  the  man  she  loves 
know  how  faithful  she  is  to  him? 

"Maybe  he  thinks  I'm  not  fit  for  the  position  as  his  wife. 

"But  haven't  I  proved  that  already? 

"He  doesn't  know  and  I  have  got  to  keep  that  from  him 
too — that  any  woman  can  occupy  the  position  in  life  she 
wants,  the  illusion  of  which  she  has  the  desire  to  produce. 


170  THE   TAKER 

"Oh,  how  much  I  want  to  be  happy ! 

"The  strangest  part  of  all  is  that  yesterday  for  the  first 
time  the  idea  suddenly  came  to  me  that  there  is  some  one  else 
he  loves. 

"Now  I  see  that  the  future  never  comes.  People  who  are 
older  must  know  that  as  life  advances  it  is  only  a  series  of 
hopes  and  mishopes  with  something  infinite  pulling  them 
toward  the  end. 

"Can  it  be  that  no  one  ever  wins  ?" 

She  went  on  in  this  fashion  for  two  pages,  telling  how 
intolerable  was  her  situation.  And  each  complaining 
phrase  was  interlined  in  her  consciousness  with  words  of 
love  for  Vernon  and  how  he  needed  her,  how  much  he 
needed  some  one  to  watch  over  him. 

At  the  end,  with  tears  dropping  from  her  eyes  on  to  the 
page  and  into  her  hand,  she  put  down  the  two  lines  which 
she  had  memorised  with  aching  heart: 

"We  who  love  are  those  who  most  do  suffer, 
We  who  suffer  most  are  those  who  most  do  love." 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  DEFINITE  loneliness  settled  over  Leonard. 
^•*-  And  strangely,  two  incidents  happened  to  him  in 
quick  succession  that  made  his  suffering  more  poignantly 
acute  than  ever.  He  was  confronted  by  the  conviction — 
a  seed  blindly  sprouting  in  a  steel  husk — that  compassion 
for  himself  brought  recompense  of  little  value.  Also  he 
became  more  aware  than  ever  that  the  world  was  mocking 
him,  that  his  lonesomeness  and  isolation  was  an  arrange- 
ment made  by  an  unrelenting  fate  that  would  never  let  him 
live  in  peace. 

His  mother,  anaemic  and  ill  for  a  long  time,  suddenly 
succumbed  to  a  brief  heart  attack. 

The  telegram  was  brought  up  to  him  just  as  he  was 
looking  out  of  the  front  window,  waiting  for  the  servant 
to  bring  his  hat  and  coat.  Somehow  he  recognised  the 
messenger's  errand  and  rushed  out  to  meet  him. 

Then  he  stood  still,  staring  at  the  words  while  the  boy, 
sensing  the  importance  of  his  errand,  waited  a  moment, 
then  turned  and  walked  out  to  the  street. 

It  was  some  time  before  Leonard,  holding  the  yellow 
message  in  front  of  him  in  dazed  fashion,  could  go  into 
the  house. 

For  the  first  time  now  in  his  whole  life,  a  real  calamity 
had  befallen  him. 

When  Mabel  came  in  anxiously  and  cried,  "Why,  Len- 
nie,  what's  the  matter?"  he  just  stared  at  the  message  in 

171 


172  THE    TAKER 

his  hand.    Then  silently  he  handed  the  message  to  her  and 
walked  up  the  stairs  to  his  room. 

He  was  torn  by  uncomfortable  heart-twisting  emotions. 
Somehow,  he  had  never  counted  on  this  happening  to  him. 
And  he  could  not  get  away  from  the  fact  that  in  some  way 
he  was  to  blame.  Walking  up  and  down  the  floor  he 
thought  of  the  telegram  with  its  words  typed  on  the  sickly 
looking  yellow  paper. 

"Mrs.  Vernon  died  suddenly  at  five-thirty-one  this  morn- 
ing. Tried  to  get  you  on  long  distance." 

The  doctor's  name  was  signed — "Dr.  Lemon." 

What  an  absurd  name ! 

A  doctor  with  a  name  like  that  ought  not  to  be  allowed 
to  practise  his  profession. 

His  mother — how  sweet  and  tolerant  she  always  was — 
had  been. 

A  thought  shot  through  him  into  his  very  soul. 

Why  had  he  ever  left  her  alone  and  treated  her  so 
thoughtlessly?  Why  hadn't  he  brought  her  from  Elyria 
when  he  married  Jennie?  He  remembered  now  the  heart 
broken  letters  she  had  written  him  at  Maxine's  birth. 
Yes,  she  had  wanted  to  come  to  him,  and  he  had  not  even 
answered  it  for  weeks.  He  had  known  so  well  she  was  sick 
and  needing  him.  Yet,  not  once  had  he  gone  to  her. 

Then  his  own  voice  crashed  in  his  ears : 

"Great  God!  She's  gone  from  me!  I  could  have  saved 
her!  Great  God  .  .  ." 

It  was  not  easy  for  Mabel  to  pacify  him  on  his  return 
from  the  funeral.  Nor  in  the  days  that  followed.  He 
went  about  like  an  automaton  or  just  sat  in  the  front 
room  looking  out  at  the  window. 


THE    TAKER  173 

But  Mabel  was  not  really  aware  of  how  he  was  suffering 
until  the  evening  of  the  third  day  when  she  came  into  the 
darkened  library  and  saw  him  sitting  in  a  rocker,  quietly 
sobbing. 

Running  to  his  side  she  placed  her  hands  on  his  shoul- 
der. 

"Leonard,"  she  pleaded. 

And  when  he  looked  up  at  her  she  perceived  for  the  first 
time  that  he  had  really  grown  much  greyer  and  that  his 
face  was  furrowed  by  deep  sad  lines. 

"Poor,  dear  boy,"  she  murmured. 

He  turned  his  head  and  looked  up,  steadily,  quizzically. 

"Mabel,  my  mother  has  left  me,"  he  whispered. 

The  thought  came  to  her  that  now  he  was  depending  on 
her  to  succour  him.  She  started  in  to  talk,  trying  to 
reason  with  him  that  all  this  had  to  be,  that  it  was  in  the 
hands  of  a  higher  being  and  was  only  the  beautiful  adven- 
ture that  came  to  every  one  sooner  or  later. 

But  he  only  pushed  her  away. 

"Mabel — leave  me  alone  awhile.  I  want  to  sit  here  in 
the  dark  with  my  thoughts." 

Somehow,  at  the  moment  she  felt  she  must  save  him, 
that  now  he  would  listen  to  her. 

And  she  put  her  hand  on  his  forehead  and  began  strok- 
ing back  his  thick  brown  hair.  She  even  accompanied  it 
by  saying,  "My  poor  boy — my  poor  boy." 

But  he  pushed  her  away,  saying  gently:  "Mabel — 
please " 

So  she  turned  and  went  out,  shutting  the  door  lightly 
so  as  not  to  shock  him. 

However,  she  was  not  far  down  the  hall  when  she  had 
to  stop  and  hold  on  to  the  balustrade  at  the  stairs. 
Though  something  clutched  at  her  throat  in  sympathy 


174  THE    TAKER 

with  him,  she  felt  inadequate  at  the  moment  to  be  of  any 
use  to  him,  incapable  of  helping  him  in  the  slightest  de- 
gree. And  she  went  up  the  stairs  into  her  own  room  with 
the  prayer  that  some  goodly  prescience  would  put  the 
right  words  at  her  lips  to  ease  him. 

All  that  night,  Leonard  sat  gazing  out  of  the  window, 
crystallising  in  his  mind  one  painful  thought  after  an- 
other. His  loneliness  was  indeed  acute  and  agonising. 

He  saw  the  dawn  creep  up  and  throw  a  pale  pink  light 
on  the  trees  and  ground.  He  saw  it  creep  away  and  the 
bright  morning  light  come  with  its  sunshine.  And  he  be- 
came struck  by  a  thought  that  seemed  queerly  true — the 
idea  that  all  human  beings  went  through  the  same  process 
as  a  day — the  faint  light,  then  the  deepened  shadows  when 
the  glare  becomes  bright. 

He  went  to  the  factory  but  came  home  at  three  o'clock 
again.  And  again  he  sat  in  the  rocker  until  long  past  ten 
o'clock.  Then  he  got  up,  quietly,  and  walked  slowly 
across  the  lawn  and  around  to  the  rear  of  the  house. 
Somehow  he  wanted  to  get  a  perspective  of  the  place 
wherein  he  dwelt  in  so  much  misery. 

For  a  long  time  he  stood,  leaning  against  a  tree  and 
just  gazing  at  the  sky  and  stars,  at  the  foliage  overhead, 
at  Mabel's  room  where  her  sitting  figure  was  shadowed  on 
the  curtain. 

It  made  him  think  how  his  mother  must  have  sat  in  her 
room,  first,  in  the  New  York  apartment,  and  then  in  the 
house  in  Elyria — alone. 

Standing  there  in  the  night  shadows  of  the  house,  tears 
coursed  down  his  cheeks,  and  he  mumbled  aloud : 

"Mother,  mother — forgive  me!  I  didn't  realise  .  .  . 
do  you  hear?'* 

Walking  around  to  the  front  of  the  house  again  he 


THE    TAKER  175 

climbed  up  the  steps  to  the  stone  balustrade  that  over- 
hung a  cluster  of  wild  rose  bushes.  As  he  looked  down, 
the  deep  shadows  underneath  him  made  him  feel  as  if  he 
were  peering  into  his  own  abysmal  darkness,  while  from 
where  he  stood  his  eyes,  as  he  lifted  them,  carried  out  over 
a  sea  of  lonely  shingled  roofs  and  towering  tree  tops. 
Though  he  was  little  aware  of  what  he  saw.  He  could 
only  lend  himself  to  the  heart-breaking  conflict  that  was 
going  on  in  his  mind. 

All  this  wrought  a  further  change  in  the  make-up  of 
Leonard  Vernon.  He  became  a  different  person.  Night 
after  night  he  sat  at  the  table,  silently  and  meditatively, 
waiting  for  the  meal  to  be  over  and  then  walking  slowly 
into  the  library  and  reading  and  smoking  until  long  past 
midnight. 

He  read  book  after  book,  French  History,  wild  detec- 
tive stories,  novels  of  romance. 

Until  one  day  he  came  across  the  following  lines  which 
struck  him  forcibly,  more  for  the  remembrance  that  came 
with  them  than  for  any  other  reason. 

Jennie,  to  whom  he  remembered  reciting  them  more  than 
once,  returned  to  Hastings  and  to  the  old  home  on  the 
hill,  for  the  first  time  since  their  divorce.  And,  for  the 
first  time,  he  wondered  what  had  happened  to  her  and 
how  life  had  treated  her? 

"Happy  are  they  whom  life  satisfies,  who  can  amuse  them- 
selves, and  be  content  .  .  .  who  have  not  discovered,  with  a 
vast  disgust — that  all  things  are  a  weariness." 

And  over  these  lines  he  then  spent  most  of  his  time  and 
thought — reflecting  how  his  own  life  had  been  a  fair  exam- 
ple of  this — just  one  continual  process  of  disillusionment. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

fflHE  day  she  ran  from  Lester,  Marcy  stayed  at  her 
A     father's  home  until  near  midnight,  and  during  the 
entire  day  her  father  neither  called  to  her  nor  came  up  to 
her. 

When  she  walked  down  the  steps  for  the  first  time  it 
was  dark  and  she  nearly  stumbled  over  his  body  which  lay 
near  the  door. 

She  stooped  down,  rigid  with  fright,  with  an  army  of 
thoughts  about  suicide  and  murder  marching  through  her. 

Only  the  smell  of  whiskey  and  the  heavy,  stertorous 
wreathing  relieved  her. 

Her  father  was  drunk. 

So  she  stood  up  quickly  and  stepped  around  his  pros- 
trate form  and  out  of  the  door  onto  the  porch. 

Anxious  to  get  away  from  the  place,  she  ran  quickly, 
though  weak  from  her  day  of  hysterical  fasting. 

When  she  was  more  than  a  block  away  from  the  house, 
the  thought  flashed  into  her  mind  that  maybe  her  father 
was  not  drunk  but  dead  and  that  she  had  imagined  he  was 
breathing.  So  she  ran  back,  and  with  a  spasm  of  fear, 
entered  the  dining  room  and  put  her  head  down  on  her 
father's  chest.  He  was  breathing,  heavily,  and  snoring 
from  the  effects  of  the  liquor. 

Relieved,  she  walked  out  into  the  night  air  for  the  sec- 
ond time,  wondering  what  she  should  do,  where  she  could 
go.  She  saw  the  impossibility  of  going  to  Lester  again. 
She  could  never  do  that,  she  told  herself.  He'd  taunt  her 
now,  and  even  beat  her. 

176 


THE    TAKER  177 

So  for  a  second  time,  she  walked  back  to  her  father's 
house.  Quite  fearlessly  she  sat  down  in  a  rocker  near 
his  snoring  body  and  scanned  the  situation,  for  some  way 
out.  For  an  hour  or  more  she  sat  there,  until  her  father's 
returning  consciousness  made  her  aware  of  the  utter  im- 
possibility of  spending  the  night  under  the  same  roof. 

Then  she  walked  out  into  the  dark  street  again,  trudg- 
ing along  with  little  thought  as  to  direction  or  what 
might  happen  to  her.  Although  there  were  some  ideas 
that  racked  her ;  where  Vernon  was  now ;  had  the  way  she 
had  fled  from  him  made  him  hate  her?  and  other  though U 
that  seemed  to  keep  him  vividly  before  her. 

Too,  the  thought  that  she  might  lose  him  forever  so  be- 
numbed her  that  at  one  time  she  nearly  ran  into  a  picket 
fence. 

Walking  along,  she  recalled  how  he  had  said :  "Marcy !" 
and  kissed  her  for  the  first  time. 

Suppose  he  should  never  feel  like  doing  it  again. 

Suddenly  she  found  herself  near  the  Vernon  home.  A 
little  forgetful,  she  became  enchanted  by  the  realisation 
that  she  could  gaze  on  the  big  house  and  know  there  was 
some  one  in  there  who  might  be  thinking  of  her.  It  was 
such  a  wonderful  looking  place.  The  moonlight  on  the 
shadow-crested  chimneys  and  peaks  made  the  place  look 
like  some  of  the  castles  in  Fairyland  that  she  had  seen 
pictured. 

Looking  up  at  the  silhouetted  towers  and  gables,  she 
thought : 

"He  is  sleeping  up  there.  I  wonder  where?  I'll  bet  he 
doesn't  know  how  unhappy  his  poor  little  Marcy  is  be- 
cause of  him." 

Then  the  thought  that  he  might  be  talking  to  his  wife, 
when  she  was  so  alone  and  suffering,  hurt  her  indescrib- 


178  THE    TAKER 

ably.  She  turned  and  walked  toward  where  the  saloons 
and  billiard  rooms  of  Hasting  were  grouped.  Somehow, 
thinking  about  Vernon  forced  her  into  this  demonstration 
of  a  defence  for  him.  She  would  go  past  the  saloon  where 
Lester  was  and  prove  his  worthlessness  while  a  good  man 
like  Mr.  Vernon  was  at  home,  asleep. 

Marcy  went  on.  In  one  place  her  notice  was  drawn  by 
curses  and  loud  talking  and  in  a  mirror  set  at  an  angle 
inside  the  doorway,  she  caught  a  hasty  glimpse  of  what 
seemed  like  her  husband's  face. 

After  that  she  felt  satisfied.  Now  she  could  go  home 
and  just  wait  for  morning  to  come.  Then  she  would  go 
back  to  the  factory  and  tell  Mr.  Vernon  how  sorry  she 
was  for  being  mean  to  him. 

When  Marcy  walked  to  the  door  of  her  cottage,  she  was 
surprised  to  see  her  husband  sitting  by  the  table,  smoking 
his  pipe. 

"Well,  you  thought  you'd  come,  did  you?"  he  said,  the 
while  she  tried  to  understand  that  this  was  not  an  ap- 
parition in  front  of  her.  But  in  a  moment  she  got  over 
her  fright  and  without  answering  him,  walked  rigidly  past 
him  to  the  bedroom. 

Without  a  word  to  him,  she  undressed  methodically, 
even  taking  longer  than  usual  to  comb  out  her  hair  and 
brush  it.  Then  she  tumbled  into  bed  mumbling  a  prayer 
for  the  future  and  her  chance  of  seeing  Vernon  again. 

Not  until  her  head  was  deep  under  the  covers  did  she 
venture  to  think  about  Lester.  That  he  was  not  in  the 
saloon  as  she  had  thought,  made  her  more  angry  than 
ever. 

During  the  following  weeks  Vernon  did  not  come  near 
her.  News  of  his  mother's  death  and  his  grief  solaced  her, 
however. 


THE    TAKER  179 

But  these  were  days  of  terrible  longing  and  sympathy 
for  Marcy.  Her  only  satisfaction  came  from  feeling  that 
he  was  watching  and  that  it  was  simply  a  question  of  hold- 
ing out,  as  it  had  been  before. 

Though  each  day  of  longing  saddened  her  and  made  her 
feel  a  little  older. 

All  the  time  she  starved  for  just  a  word  from  him,  a 
glanee  even. 

Then  suddenly  he  began  paying  more  attention  to  her. 

It  was  perhaps  six  weeks  after  his  mother's  death  that 
Vernon  passed  her  at  her  desk  and  said  cheerily: 

"Good-morning,  Marcy." 

Even  though  the  sadness  was  plainly  discernible  on  his 
face,  it  was  as  if  a  mantle  of  happiness  had  been  placed 
around  her. 

Then  some  days  later  she  had  to  go  into  his  office  for 
some  invoice  papers  and  he  stopped  her  and  very  casually 
talked  about  a  big  spring  order  that  had  just  come  in  for 
a  parish  house  in  Bridgeport.  She  was  conscious,  how- 
ever, that  there  was  a  change  in  him.  As  he  talked,  he 
seemed  to  avoid  any  mention  of  their  past  regard  for  each 
other.  It  was  as  though  they  were  starting  to  become 
acquainted  all  over  again.  He  was  so  polite,  as  if  she 
were  some  stranger.  And  she  wished  that  now  he  would 
not  be  so  kind  and  gentle,  that  he  would  treat  her  roughly 
as  if  he  knew  her.  Nor  did  he  break  forth  into  any  serious 
talk  about  life,  or  say  any  of  the  great  wonderful  things, 
the  way  he  used  to  do.  He  was  just  sweeter  and  more 
kind  than  ever  before. 

It  made  her  wish  that  she  could  say  to  him : 

"I  don't  understand  what's  the  matter,  Mr.  Vernon. 
You  know  how  much  I  like  you  and  how  sorry  I  feel  for 
you.  Don't  you  see  I  can't  stand  this?" 


180  THE    TAKER 

At  last,  a  few  days  later,  she  could  no  longer  tolerate 
this  treatment.  She  went  to  him  and  said: 

"Mr.  Vernon,  I  know  you  don't  care  for  me.  I  knew 
all  the  time,  that  you  were  just  loving  your  wife  and 
just  playing  with  me.'* 

He  smiled  in  somewhat  his  old  manner: 

"Come  here,  little  Marcy." 

Like  some  young  animal  who  had  found  its  lost  master, 
she  went  to  him. 

He  began :  "I've  had  something  to  work  out,  Marcy.  I 
really  have  been  trying  to  forget  you.  But  you  win.  I 
just  can't  do  it.  I  don't  love  my  wife.  I'm  only  thinking 
of  you  all  the  time.  I've  felt  like  a  lost  sheep  these  last 
weeks.  I  tell  you  this  honestly.  My  wife  doesn't  need 
me.  She's  a  finished  product.  And  I  have  got  to  build. 
I  guess,  little  girl,  that's  why  I  want  you  so.  You  prob- 
ably don't  understand,  but  men  like  me  are  like  that. 
We  have  got  to  create.  Watch  things  grow  under  our 
hands.  Mould  them.  Watch  them  reflect  us.  There's 
a  good  deal  of  the  mother  in  men  like  me,  Marcy.  That's 
the  reason  I  like  you.  You  give  me  work  to  do.  That 
is  the  reason  I  have  come  back  to  you.  I've  got  to  finish 
my  job." 

She  looked  up  into  his  eyes. 

"Oh,  you  wonderful,  wonderful  man,"  she  said,  rever- 
ently. 

Impelled  by  that  admiration  begotten  from  sympathy, 
she  could  no  longer  hold  back  her  feeling  for  him.  "I — 
just  love  you,"  she  cried. 

She  was  surprised  when,  instead  of  taking  her  in  his 
arms,  he  walked  over  to  the  window,  saying: 

"It's  hot  in  here.    Let's  open  the  window." 

Strangely  he  again  avoided  her  after  that  day.     And 


THE    TAKER  181 

again  she  was  hurt,  lost  in  the  fear  that  her  confession  of 
love  for  him  had  weakened  his  desire  to  conquer  her. 

Until  one  evening,  when  she  met  him  in  the  corridor 
outside  the  main  office.  He  was  carrying  a  satchel  and 
had  just  come  in. 

"Going  home?"  he  asked,  as  he  stopped  in  front  of  her. 

"I — I  was,"  she  said,  trying  very  hard  to  restrain  her- 
self from  showing  how  glad  she  was  to  see  him. 

"Come  into  the  office,"  he  said. 

When  he  walked  away  and  took  it  for  granted  that  she 
would  follow  him,  she  had  a  desire  to  hold  back  and  show 
him  she  did  not  give  in  so  easily.  She  wanted  him  to  come 
and  take  her  by  the  wrists  and  force  her  to  follow  him. 
But  the  fear  encompassed  her  that  he  might  not  do  this. 
She  followed  meekly  in  his  footsteps. 

When  they  were  together,  he  put  his  satchel  on  the  desk 
and  slowly  advanced  toward  her. 

He  said,  very  softly  and  kindly:  "Marcy — Marcy." 

He  seemed  afraid  to  touch  her  and  yet  desirous,  closing 
her  fingers  one  at  a  time  in  his  own. 

She  did  not  draw  away.  Instead,  a  shock  of  gladness 
went  through  her  body.  And  then  he  put  his  arms  around 
her,  very  slowly,  holding  her  body  in  a  close,  quiet  em- 
brace, holding  her  so  tight  that  she  could  not  move. 

"Marcy,"  he  whispered. 

She  felt  his  hot  kisses  upon  her  face — upon  her  throat. 
The  touch  of  his  lips  made  her  faint  and  hurt  her,  yet 
sent  thrills  through  her  that  made  her  feel  like  crying 
with  happiness. 

He  began  talking  again,  saying  many  times:  "Marcy, 
Marcy,  you're  so  glorious,"  and  other  words  kept  from 
her  understanding  by  the  haze  over  her  senses.  She  was 
only  really  conscious  of  the  warmth  of  his  breath  and  the 


182  THE    TAKER 

sweet  softness  of  his  voice.  His  words  were  like  some 
distant  rumble. 

At  last  she  managed  to  look  at  him  and  he  kissed  her 
again.  Then  she  met  his  lips  with  her  own.  She  wanted 
to.  Even  clutching  him  nearer  to  her,  so  that  some 
thought  would  not  send  him  away  from  her  again. 

She  heard  him  say: 

"Marcy — meet  me  to-night  out  in  the  road  that  leads 
past  the  demons  grounds.  You  know  the  summer  house 
there  on  the  place  where  I  used  to  live,  over  on  Henry 
Street.  I  must  see  you,  Marcy.  Will  you,  Marcy,  will 
you?" 

She  looked  up  into  his  eyes,  reverently :  "Oh,  of  course 
I  will,"  she  exclaimed. 

She  could  penetrate  the  blackness  now  and  see  his  face, 
white,  drawn,  with  deep  lines  around  the  eyes  and  mouth. 
It  made  her  put  her  hand  up  to  his  cheeks  to  rub  the  lines 
away.  "But  don't  be  so  unhappy,"  she  added  as  she  saw 
how  clouded  his  handsome  eyes  were. 

Marcy  was  ravished  with  joy  the  entire  way  home.  All 
the  distress  of  the  many  weeks  seemed  smoothed  away, 
leaving  only  a  wonderful  sweetness.  Now  she  was  ashamed 
of  the  antagonism  she  had  borne  against  him,  feeling  that 
no  matter  what  he  did  now  she  would  understand. 

Every  possible  fear  for  the  future  was  erased. 

Only  thoughts  of  Vernon,  love  for  him,  desire  for  him, 
worship  of  him,  reverence,  filled  her.  The  mocking  law 
of  the  world  that  at  times  had  made  her  feel  poor  and 
ashamed  was  now  changed.  Instead  she  owed  the  world 
a  deep  feeling  of  obligation  and  gratitude,  felt  like  going 
home  and  being  even  kind  to  Lester. 

At  supper  Marcy  was  gay  and  talkative,  her  husband 
morose  and  watchful. 


THE    TAKER  183 

She  wanted  to  tell  him  outright  that  to-night  she  was 
going  to  be  very  happy.  She  wished  he  might  know  how 
her  heart  was  throbbing. 

However,  her  husband's  sombre  mood  quieted  her  and 
made  her  more  reasoning.  When  the  meal  was  over  she 
took  the  dishes  into  the  kitchen,  silently  wondering  when 
she  could  leave  the  house.  The  boy  seemed  to  be  sitting 
there  watching  her,  like  a  soldier  at  his  post.  Strangely, 
he  was  lingering  long  past  the  time  for  his  usual :  "Guess 
I'll  go  down  for  a  little  game,  Marcy." 

She  thought:  "Supposing  he  suspects  something  and 
stays  home." 

But  she  pacified  herself  with  the  knowledge  that  there 
was  no  possible  way  for  him  to  know  of  her  meeting  with 
Vernon.  Though  as  she  washed  the  dishes  and  dried  them, 
he  kept  watching  her.  She  tried  to  work  faster  so  that 
he  could  see  that  she  was  really  interested;  and  then 
slower,  so  that  he  could  see  that  she  was  not  hurrying. 
But  he  kept  up  his  queer  piercing  gaze  at  her  until  soon 
her  arms  seemed  so  rebellious  against  the  lies  they  were 
telling,  she  could  hardly  lift  them. 

With  the  thought  of  suggesting  that  it  was  time  for 
him  to  go  out,  she  stepped  to  the  window,  pushed  the 
curtains  back,  and  looking  out  into  the  darkness,  managed 
casually,  "Are  you  going  into  town,  Lester?" 

His  eyes  seemed  to  pierce  her  at  her  back. 

When  he  said,  "What  are  you  anxious  about  it  for?" 
she  was  more  sure  than  ever  that  he  was  suspicious.  It 
was  only  after  a  time  of  vain  struggling  for  control  that 
she  replied:  "I'm  not  anxious.  I'm  just  tired  to-night. 
I  guess — I'll  go  to  bed — when  I'm  through." 

She  was  strangely  satisfied  now  that  this  last  idea  had 


184  THE    TAKER 

come  to  her.  He  would  soon  get  tired  of  sitting  around 
alone. 

As  she  talked,  however,  she  kept  glancing  out  through 
the  window  panes,  so  that  he  might  not  discover  any  tell- 
tale guilt  hovering  over  her  face. 

Looking  out  through  the  black  branches  of  the  trees 
in  the  back  yard,  she  saw  how  the  wind  was  swinging 
wildly;  even  the  bushes  at  the  side  of  the  house  were 
huge  black  scary  blots  that  seemed  to  conceal  hosts  of 
secret  watchers. 

It  was  getting  colder,  too.  And  Vernon  would  be 
tramping  back  and  forth  in  the  meadow  lane  trying  to 
keep  warm.  Supposing  he  grew  impatient  and  did  not 
wait. 

She  must  get  away. 

But  she  must  be  careful.  There  was  earth  under  her 
feet  now.  No  longer  would  she  be  lonely  and  unhappy. 
She  must  not  lose  it. 

Turning  from  the  window  she  blithely  went  into  the 
bedroom,  saying  rather  sleepily  as  she  went,  "Lester,  if 
you  happen  to  go  out,  turn  out  the  light  when  you  leave, 
will  you?" 

She  wondered  why  he  looked  at  her  so  strangely  and 
waited  so  long  before  he  answered :  "Oh,  all  right,  I'll  turn 
out  the  light."  Then  came:  "Guess  I'll  go  into  town  for 
a  little  game  with  the  boys." 

But  she  dared  not  turn  around  to  search  his  face  for 
the  truth,  for  fear  of  his  discovering  the  joy  on  her  face. 
So  for  a  long  time  she  stood  in  front  of  the  bureau, 
vacantly  gazing  at  a  row  of  kodak  pictures  stuck  to  the 
mirror's  edge.  Her  first  deep  breath  was  taken  when  she 
heard  the  door  close  after  him.  He  slammed  it,  too,  as 
if  to  let  her  know  that  he  was  going.  Which  troubled  her 


THE    TAKER  185 

somewhat.  He  didn't  usually  slam  it  so  hard.  But  as 
she  ran  into  the  dining  room  and  discovered  that  he  had 
taken  his  pipe  and  tobacco,  all  fear  was  removed  from 
her  mind. 

"If  he  wasn't  going  downtown,"  she  thought,  "he 
wouldn't  take  his  tobacco  with  him." 

But  she  decided  to  wait  until  he  had  time  to  get  away, 
and  for  five  minutes  by  the  clock  sat  restlessly  in  the  chair 
by  the  table.  Then  she  darted  into  the  bedroom,  put  on 
her  hat  and  long  black  coat,  and  with  a  hurried  glance 
about  her,  rushed  out  through  the  door  into  the  night  air. 

Running  along  the  street  she  was  so  happy  and  care- 
free, she  felt  like  crying  out.  Breathlessly  she  soon  passed 
the  long  line  of  little  cottages  which  marked  her  street 
and  turned  off  into  the  lane  that  bordered  the  snow- 
covered  rolling  lawn  of  the  demons'  place.  Here  she 
could  look  ahead  over  clear  ground. 

But  it  was  a  little  more  scary  here,  a  mixture  of  glooms 
and  irradiations,  lights  and  shadows  coming  at  her  with 
startling  suddenness.  And  she  went  on  more  slowly,  the 
way  a  stranger  enters  some  dark,  silent  city  street. 

When  she  made  out  Vernon's  figure,  her  heart  pounded 
so  violently  she  could  hardly  breathe.  Drawing  nearer, 
she  saw  that  he  was  walking  back  and  forth,  his  head 
down,  his  form  tall  and  black  in  the  shadowy,  dim  light. 

She  quickly  ran  toward  him.  And  in  a  gush  of  un- 
controllable love  she  cried  as  she  reached  him : 

"Oh,  I  was  so  afraid  you  wouldn't  wait." 

He  had  on  a  heavy  black  overcoat,  and  as  she  ran  up, 
instead  of  clasping  her  into  his  arms,  he  nervously  turned 
up  the  broad  collar  and  buttoned  it  close  up  to  his  chin. 
Then  he  said  or  rather  whispered,  with  a  furtive  glance 


186  THE    TAKER 

around  him  as  he  spoke,  "Let  us  walk  a  little  away  from 
here.  I  had  nearly  given  up  hope." 

"Aren't  you  glad  I  came?"  she  breathed,  surprised  that 
he  did  not  take  her  in  his  arms  and  smother  her  with 
kisses. 

"Marcy,  you  are  a  wonderful  child.  Let's  walk  a  little 
faster,"  he  said  nervously. 

As  he  talked  he  took  hold  of  her  arm  for  the  first  time. 
He  seemed  much  quieter  than  she  thought  he  would  be. 
They  were  really  walking  along  in  silence.  But  she  was  so 
happy.  His  body  touched  hers  at  every  step.  Just  being 
with  him  like  this  was  happiness  enough,  after  the  hour 
with  her  scowling  husband. 

But  he  seemed  uneasy  and  kept  turning  and  looking 
around  again  and  again,  and  taking  deep  quick  breaths. 

Also,  he  had  dropped  her  arm. 

It  was  after  about  five  minutes  of  this  silent  tramp 
through  the  unbroken  snow,  that  he  said: 

"There's  a  pavilion  only  a  couple  of  minutes  from  here; 
let's  go  there.  I  think  it  will  be  warmer." 

And  not  until  the  snow  covered  roof  of  the  little  latticed 
pavilion  loomed  up  in  front  of  them,  did  he  put  his  arm 
around  her  and  draw  her  closer  to  him.  Then,  under  the 
shadows  of  the  vine-covered  pathway,  he  looked  into  her 
face  for  a  moment,  and  silently  kissed  her  two  or  three 
times.  However,  the  place  had  that  forlornness  of  things 
that  are  made  small  by  darkness,  and  made  them  speak  in 
whispers. 

Suddenly,  there  was  a  rustling  of  the  dry  twigs  over 
their  heads  and  a  chirping  sparrow  scurried  swiftly  out 
of  its  shelter. 

Both  were  held  transfixed  in  each  other's  arms  with  ter- 
ror and  then  laughed  at  their  fright.  For  a  moment 


THE    TAKER  187 

it  seemed  as  if  the  unseen  hand  of  dusk  had  reached  them 
through  the  black  tranquillity  and  stillness  about  them. 

"Marcy,"  he  said,  "that's  the  way  thoughts  about  you 
startle  me  when  I  get  so  lonely." 

For  a  long  time  he  searched  her  face  while  she  stood 
inanimate,  her  soft  cheeks  white  in  the  pale  light. 

Looking  into  her  eyes,  he  then  went  on,  calmly : 

"Marcy,  why  do  you  love  me  so  much  ?" 

She  huddled  closer  to  him.  "I  don't  know.  I  just  do. 
I  just  want  to.  Please  hold  me." 

"Marcy — we  can't  always  give  way  to  our  feelings." 

Looking  up  into  his  eyes  and  clinging  to  him  even  more 
feverishly,  she  begged: 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  love  you?  It  ain't  wrong,  is 
it?"  She  pulled  away  from  him  just  a  little.  "Oh,  I 
know  it's  not  wrong  to  act  the  way  you  feel." 

"Marcy,"  he  said,  "we  suffer  so  much  in  life.  I've  been 
thinking  a  lot  since  this  afternoon.  There  is  something 
I  want  to  tell  you." 

There  was  the  crunching  of  steps  on  the  snow-covered 
gravel,  a  wild  curse  near  them,  and  at  their  ears  the  thun- 
derous roar  of  two  shots. 

...  It  was  Vernon  who  was  shot,  Marcy  realised, 
when  the  form  beside  her  began  slipping  down  into  the 
snow. 

Bewildered  and  nearly  rigid  with  fright,  she  saw  his 
face  whiten  and  then  become  ashen  coloured.  When  he 
drew  his  hand  away  from  where  he  clutched  at  his  shoul- 
der, it  was  covered  with  blood. 

Faintly  he  whispered :  "I'm  hurt,  Marcy.  I  knew  some- 
thing was  going  to  happen.  I  felt  it." 


188  THE    TAKER 

Hysterically  she  cried:  "Oh,  what  shall  I  do?  What 
shall  I  do?" 

"I  must  get  home — without  any  one  knowing,"  he 
whispered. 

Then  he  drew  himself  to  his  knees  and  said  in  a  hoarse 
voice : 

"Marcy,  leave  me — I — I've  got  to  get  home  alone.  We 
mustn't  be — found  together.  Somebody  is  sure  to  come 
up.  My  wife " 

"I'll  never  leave  you,"  she  said  valiantly. 

He  grasped  her  hand  and  squeezed  it  cruelly.  Sud- 
denly he  seemed  angered  in  a  way  that  was  utterly  new 
to  her. 

Hoarsely  he  said:  "I  mean  it,  damn  it — leave  me.  I'll 
yell  for  help.  Somebody  will  come.  I  knew  I  was  a  fool 
to  risk  it." 

For  a  moment  she  was  aghast  at  his  strange  anger 
toward  her.  Then  his  strength  left  him  and  he  sunk 
back,  helplessly,  into  the  snow.  In  a  moment  she  had  her 
arms  around  him  and  without  thinking  of  the  impossibil- 
ity of  it  tried  to  lift  him. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  two  dark  figures  came  run- 
ning through  the  snow. 

One  of  them  was  a  man  of  about  sixty,  the  other  a 
younger  man,  and  both  wore  black  coats  with  brass 
buttons. 

Immediately  the  older  man  had  come  up  and  bent  over 
Vernon's  body,  saying :  "He's  shot,"  then  an  instant  later, 
"My  God,  it's  Miss  Jennie's  husband.  Tell  them  at  the 
house,  quick." 

The  proceedings  of  the  next  few  minutes  were  a  wild 
blurred  nightmare  to  Marcy.  Dazed  by  the  suddenness  of 
it  all  she  saw  a  woman  run  up  and  heard  the  cries : 


THE    TAKER  189 

"Oh,  my  husband "     "Oh,  what's  happened?" 

At  first  Marcy  thought  she  must  explain.  But  the 
words  would  not  come.  She  could  only  stand  by  and  see 
them  bend  over  the  man  she  loved,  see  them  lift  him  to  his 
feet,  hear  their  anxious  cries.  When  the  woman  suddenly 
turned  to  her  and  said,  "Do  you  know  how  it  happened, 
Miss?"  Marcy  could  only  mumble  back:  "I — I  don't 
know.  Somebody — shot  him." 

Then  she  saw  the  men  lift  Vernon  from  the  ground  and 
with  their  arms  around  him  and  the  women  following, 
carry  him  towards  the  large  house  that  stood  dimly  out- 
lined back  of  them. 

They  neither  consulted  nor  noticed  her. 

For  a  few  minutes  Marcy  followed  back  of  them.  Then 
the  understanding  conveyed  by  Vernon's  command  came 
to  her.  She  had  no  place  there.  At  last  she  turned  and 
humbly  walked  down  the  path  to  the  road. 

Before  she  realised  fully  what  had  happened,  she  was 
back  in  her  own  little  sitting  room,  staring  at  the  figures 
in  the  red  carpet. 

Sitting  down  in  a  chair  by  the  stove,  she  began  think- 
ing— thinking  of  what  right  they  had  to  take  him  away 
from  her,  and  if  they  would  take  good  care  of  him.  Sud- 
denly, something  made  her  stiff  with  fright.  Supposing 
he  was  killed.  What  then!  She  would  never  see  him 
again !  Probably  she  would  have  to  go  on  living  with  her 
husband.  Never  again  would  she  feel  the  kisses  of  the 
man  she  loved. 

Jumping  up  from  her  chair,  she  cried  aloud: 

"If  he's  dead  then  I'll  kill  myself.  That's  what  I'll  do. 
Yes,  I  will." 

It  was  a  full  minute  before  she  relaxed  and  began  to 
walk  around  the  room,  distrait,  and  anxious,  wondering 


190  THE    TAKER 

if  she  hadn't  better  go  to  him  and  force  her  way  in  and 
tell  the  woman,  who  was  evidently  Mr.  Vernon's  first  wife, 
of  her  right  to  be  near  him. 

It  was  an  hour  of  delirium  and  torment,  of  crazed  long- 
ing and  agony  that  she  spent  in  her  small,  dark  room. 
Restless  peace  only  came  to  her  after  her  hysteria  had 
quieted  down  into  a  sort  of  understanding  that  Vernon 
had  not  beetn  shot  fatally,  that  it  was  only  a  wound  in 
the  shoulder  or  arm,  and  that  she  must  wait  until  morn- 
ing for  his  sake,  if  not  for  her  own,  as  he  had  begged  her 
to  do. 

But  even  when  she  was  eased,  she  still  suffered  from  the 
fear  that  she  was  not  suffering  enough.  However,  she 
did  feel  a  little  relieved.  Like  some  woman  of  mutability, 
she  coloured  her  thoughts  so  that  only  soothing  came,  tell- 
ing herself  she  must  be  wise,  even  clever,  so  that  no  worry 
should  come  to  the  man  she  loved.  She  would  go  to  bed 
and  in  the  morning  casually  inquire  at  the  factory  how 
badly  he  was  hurt.  But  not  until  some  one  first  told  her 
the  news.  No  one  must  know  how  she  was  suffering.  No 
one  must  know  that  she  had  been  there  or  knew  anything 
about  it.  Unless,  of  course,  some  one  at  the  demons' 
home  told  about  it. 

Then  she  would  gladly  face  the  world  and  tell  how  she 
loved  the  man  who  had  been  shot  and  how  he  loved  her. 
She  was  a  woman  who  loved  now — not  a  little  girl.  If  she 
were  the  only  one  concerned  the  whole  world  could  know  it. 

Marcy  was  in  her  room  and  undressing  before  she 
thought  about  her  husband  or  the  part  he  might  have 
played  in  the  affair. 

And  then  speculation  rioted  again  in  her  mind. 

It  was  her  husband  who  had  tried  to  kill  Vernon !  Why 
had  she  not  thought  of  that  before? 


THE    TAKER  191 

She  remembered  how  queerly  he  had  acted  at  the  supper 
table,  how  reluctant  he  had  been  to  leave  after  the  meal 
was  over.  Yes,  he  had  followed  her  as  she  left  the  house. 

Which  made  her  to  blame  for  the  shooting. 

Reasoning  like  this,  Marcy  was  suddenly  confronted  by 
a  new  phase  in  the  night's  happening. 

Why  should  her  husband  shoot  Vernon  when  he  had 
begged  her  to  be  friendly  with  him?  Wasn't  that  what  he 
had  wanted?  Lester  had  told  her  that,  the  day  she  ran 
away  from  him. 

By  association  of  ideas,  she  saw  now  that  it  must  really 
have  been  her  father  who  had  shot  Vernon.  He  was  the 
only  one,  after  all,  who  hated  Vernon  or  had  threatened 
him. 

In  the  instant  Marcy  became  filled  with  a  wrath  that 
steeped  the  broken  old  man  in  calumny.  Losing  sight  of 
the  fact  that  he  was  her  father,  she  only  saw  in  him  a 
monster  who  had  tried  to  take  away  from  her  something 
which  she  would  fight  for  to  her  dying  breath. 

In  a  moment  she  had  tied  a  ribbon  around  her  hair, 
frenziedly  put  on  the  suit  and  coat  she  had  been  wearing, 
and  rushed  out  of  the  house.  When  she  reached  the 
shabby  cottage,  she  was  sobbing  with  anger  and  hatred, 
and  when,  through  the  window,  she  saw  her  father  in  his 
shirt  sleeves,  smoking,  and  gazing  vacantly  into  the  grate, 
she  felt  like  taking  a  stone  or  a  brick  from  the  walk  and 
hurling  it  at  his  head.  No  sooner  was  she  within  the  door 
than  she  cried  at  him: 

"You  shot  him,  didn't  you? — maybe  you  killed  him!" 

Neil  had  been  sitting  in  a  dozing  lethargy  and  in  the 
moment  could  not  muster  his  senses  sufficiently  to  grasp 
the  meaning  of  Marcy's  accusation. 

He  tried  to  rouse  himself,  but  the  girl  could  not  wait, 


192  THE    TAKER 

only  crying  out  menacingly,  as  she  straightened  her  slen- 
der little  body  to  its  full  height : 

"I  wish  I  was  a  man.    I'd  fix  you." 

"Say,  what  are  you  thinkin'  about?"  Neil  now  de- 
manded. "Who's  killed?" 

"Why,  you  know,"  she  answered.  "Oh,  how  could 
you!"  " 

The  man  seemed  to  realise  now  a  little  more  of  what 
the  half-crazed  girl  was  saying.  He  answered  solemnly: 

"Marcy,  I  don't  know  nothin'.  I  went  over  for  supper 
and  then  came  home.  I've  been  home  ever  since." 

But  after  he  had  forced  her  to  tell  him  all  about  it,  he 
shook  his  head  knowingly,  saying:  "It  wasn't  me,  Marcy." 
He  seemed  to  chuckle  as  he  added,  "But  I  guess  I  know 
who  it  was,  all  right." 

However,  she  could  get  no  more  out  of  him. 

On  her  way  home,  Marcy  thought  over  how  her  father 
had  been  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire.  He  seemed  to  have 
grown  older  in  the  last  few  weeks.  As  she  remembered 
how  he  had  said  at  the  door,  "Maybe  you'd  better  stay 
here  to-night,  Marcy,"  she  felt  a  little  sorry  for  him. 

It  was  nearly  the  first  time  he  had  ever  thought  about 
her  welfare.  She  might  have  stayed,  too,  had  not  his 
words  recalled  her  obligation  to  the  man  she  loved.  At 
home,  alone,  she  could  think  of  Vernon  and  pray  for  him. 
That  would  not  be  possible  in  her  father's  house. 

In  this  state  of  mind,  Marcy  entered  her  cottage  again ; 
even  running  the  last  few  feet  up  the  walk,  queerly  anxious 
to  get  in  and  shut  the  door  after  her — a  barricade  behind 
which  she  could  think  again  about  Vernon. 

She  was  inside  for  a  minute  or  more  before  she  saw  that 
a  change  had  taken  place  in  the  room.  The  furniture  had 
been  moved  about,  one  chair  was  upset,  and  like  a  crippled 


THE    TAKER  193 

person  leaned  against  a  leg  of  the  table.  When  she  walked 
into  the  kitchen  she  saw  that  the  window  was  up  and  a 
drawer  of  the  oilcloth-covered  table  opened. 

Soon  it  came  over  her  what  had  happened  in  her  ab* 
sence. 

It  was  all  too  plain.  Some  money  she  furtively  had 
been  hoarding  was  taken  from  the  table  drawer.  In  its 
place  was  a  bluish  pistol  with  its  barrel  directed  at  her, 
looking  like  some  horrible  little  animal  with  its  beak  point- 
ing her  out. 

For  a  time  she  stood  in  front  of  it,  too  bewildered  to 
move.  The  realisation  that  her  husband  had  come  in  and 
taken  the  money  only  slowly  filtered  into  her  mind.  And 
then,  under  the  revolver  she  saw  a  piece  of  yellow  paper, 
with  lead  pencil  writing  on  it.  Carefully  she  pulled  it  out 
from  under  the  weapon  and  read  Lester's  uncertain 
scrawl: 

"Good-bye,  Marcy — if  I  didn't  get  you  too,  I  tried  to." 

Marcy  read  this  note  over  many  times.  Coupled  with 
the  fear  that  shot  through  her  was  a  certain  kind  of  ex- 
ultation. "Oh,  you  common  thing,"  she  cried  out,  but 
there  was  some  real  satisfaction,  too. 

At  least  he  was  gone  from  her. 

Then  she  turned  and  walked  into  the  sitting  room 
again. 

Lester,  white,  perspiring,  besotted  with  drink,  was 
standing  in  the  doorway  watching  her. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  run  back  into  the  kitchen. 
But  strangely  she  felt  brave  and  defiant.  Walking  over 
to  him  she  said  coldly: 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  now?" 


194  THE    TAKER 

He  looked  at  her  and  pointed  to  the  note  in  her  hand. 
"Did  you  read  that?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  read  it." 

He  laughed  at  her  with  a  forced  effort.  "Well,  I  just 
waited  around  to  see  if  you'd  come  back — alone." 

Then  he  laughed  again. 

Marcy's  face  reddened  with  anger.  "I  wish  I  had 
brought  somebody  with  me — just  to  catch  you,"  she  said 
hotly. 

He  looked  around  before  he  said  sharply,  "Don't  worry 
— they'll  never  get  me." 

Then  he  went  on.  "Don't  you  see  you  brought  this  on 
all  yourself.  Trying  to  play  a  trick  on  me,  wasn't  you? 
What  kind  of  a  fool  do  you  think  I  am  anyway?"  He 
looked  sneeringly  into  her  face  as  he  spoke. 

Marcy  interrupted  him  now.  "Don't  you  come  near 
me,  Lester  Moore,"  she  cried.  "You  know  well  enough 
what  you've  done  to  me.  You  know  you  are  the  one  who 
is  to  blame  because  I  was  with  Mr.  Vernon.  You  know 
you  wanted  me  to  be  friendly  with  him.  You  even  made 
me  do  it.  And  I  am  not  made  out  of  iron,  or  something. 
He's  the  most  wonderful  man  in  the  world.  And  if  you 
forced  me  to  like  him  you  can't  blame  me.  Then  he 
needed  me  anyway,"  she  added  resolutely. 

Moore  seized  her  wrist.  His  manner  was  much  like  that 
of  a  snarling  dog.  "Aw,  hell,"  he  said.  "I  know  your 
finish,  all  right.  Women  like  you  have  got  to  have  some 
reason  for  getting  their  start.  You're  just  another  one 
for  him.  There  won't  be  any  loss  if  I've  killed  him.  Men 
like  him — out  hunting  for  chickens  like  you — by  God, 
ought  to  get  theirs,  all  right." 

Marcy  tore  loose  from  his  grasp.  With  one  movement 
she  ran  from  him  and  opened  the  door.  Her  waist  had 


THE    TAKER  195 

burst  open  and  revealed  her  shoulders  and  a  small  rounded 
breast. 

"You  get  out  of  here,"  she  shouted.  "You  get  out  of 
here.  If  you  don't,  I'll  yell  for  help  and  you'll  get 
caught." 

The  boy  stood  still  for  a  full  minute  with  the  evident 
desire  of  showing  indifference  to  her  threat.  Then,  calmly 
he  walked  out  onto  the  porch. 

"Don't  get  excited,"  he  said.  "Don't  think  I  want  to 
hang  around  here." 

Walking  very  slowly  down  the  steps,  he  stopped  at  the 
fence. 

He  was  whistling,  too. 

Marcy  saw  him  kick  the  gate  open  and  then  turn  town- 
ward. 


CHAPTER  XXH 

AT  two  o'clock  that  morning,  Lester  found  himself  in 
front  of  the  factory.  How  he  got  there,  he  hardly 
knew ;  nor  how  he  had  determined  to  complete  his  sinister 
work  of  the  night.  But  a  desire,  definite  even  to  its  de^ 
tails,  had  worked  its  way  into  his  mind,  gradually  and 
surely,  quite  from  the  time  he  had  left  Marcy. 

He  wondered  why  he  had  not  thought  of  it  at  first,  or 
weeks  before  even.  At  least  now  the  idea  was  fixed.  He 
would  set  the  factory  on  fire.  Since  he  had  to  make  a 
getaway,  he  might  just  as  well  "kill  two  birds  with  one 
stone." 

Standing  under  the  shadow  of  the  high  fence  surround- 
ing the  factory,  he  could  see  the  light  that  always  burnt 
at  night  in  Vernon's  main  office.  And  after  only  a  little 
planning  he  saw  how  easy  it  would  be  to  get  up  to  the  top 
floor  where  the  chemicals  and  dyes  were  kept. 

Lester  waited  a  few  minutes  more,  in  a  sort  of  reverie. 
He  saw  the  night  watchman  return  to  his  shanty  after 
making  his  rounds.  Then,  keeping  to  the  shadows  and 
with  his  cap  pulled  far  down  over  his  eyes,  as  if  to  shut 
from  his  conscience  the  revealing  rays  of  strong  moon- 
light, he  went  into  the  grounds  and  circled  back  of  the 
watchman's  hut  to  the  door  of  the  shipping  room. 

This  he  found  was  open,  and  with  a  gentle  shove  was 
let  into  a  large  room  filled  with  crates  and  boxes.  It  was 
all  going  easier  than  he  had  imagined. 

One  thing  that  had  worried  him  all  evening  was  the 

196 


THE    TAKER  197 

sound  of  the  glass  falling  from  the  window  he  must  crack 
to  get  in. 

At  least  now  the  ground  was  familiar  and  with  little 
difficulty  he  tiptoed  to  the  circular  stairs  and  started 
climbing  the  steps  which  like  a  corkscrew  ran  up  through 
the  building.  But  at  each  floor  the  moonlight  came  in 
like  a  white  flashlight  through  a  narrow  two-paned 
window.  And  as  he  walked  up  the  steps,  taking  three  and 
four  at  a  time  to  avoid  the  creaking,  he  was  every  now 
and  then  startled  by  the  strange  shadows  that  followed. 

When  he  reached  the  fourth  floor  he  sat  down  for  a 
moment  to  get  his  breath,  lost  more  by  the  excitement 
than  his  climb.  It  was  only  a  minute,  however,  before 
his  eyes  began  their  investigation.  Then  looking  around 
he  saw,  standing  in  a  row,  like  men  squatting,  four  barrels 
of  linseed  oil.  He  saw  that  it  would  be  easy  enough  to 
turn  them  over  and  shove  in  the  tops  so  that  the  oil  would 
run  out  on  the  floor,  and  even  trickle  through  the  cracks 
onto  the  floor  below.  Then  he  would  light  a  piece  of 
twisted  wrapping  paper  which  he  would  make  so  long  that 
he  could  get  out  before  there  was  even  a  flare. 

More  to  get  further  balance  than  for  any  other  reason, 
he  got  up  and  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  down 
onto  the  watchman's  shanty.  Somehow  it  looked  smaller 
and  more  inoffensive,  sitting  in  the  snow  with  the  moon- 
light covering  the  roof.  It  was  more  like  a  dog  house 
with  a  chimney  stuck  in  its  top. 

At  least  everything  was  quiet.  So  he  walked  back  to 
the  barrels  and  gently  turned  them  over  on  their  side,  one 
at  a  time,  opening  the  faucet  of  each  of  the  first  two  and 
then  pulling  out  heavy  wooden  stoppers  from  the  sides  of 
the  others.  It  was  with  a  great  deal  of  satisfaction  that 


198  THE    TAKER 

he  saw  the  oil  spread  over  the  rough  floor  into  three  shin- 
ing black  pools. 

Now  he  worked  more  quickly.  For  the  first  time  he 
began  to  realise  what  he  was  doing. 

Groping  about  in  the  dim  light  he  came  to  a  large  roll 
of  packing  paper.  Peeling  open  the  thin  wrapper,  he  tore 
off  a  great  piece  and  made  a  long  funnel  of  it.  Some  ex- 
celsior on  the  floor  helped  and  this  he  scraped  up  and 
twisted  into  a  cone. 

For  a  moment  Lester  paused  now.  It  would  be  a  suc- 
cessful fire,  he  thought — and  perhaps  Vernon  carried  a 
lot  of  insurance.  Strange  he  had  not  thought  of  this  be- 
fore. With  the  business  failing,  he  would  really  be  help- 
ing Vernon. 

But  it  was  too  late  to  stop  now.  And  maybe  they'd  sus- 
pect Vernon,  anyway. 

This  thought  satisfied  him  only  for  an  instant,  how- 
ever, for  he  saw  that  Vernon  would  have  an  alibi.  He 
was  at  home,  shot — perhaps  dead  by  this  time. 

So  many  thoughts  assailed  him  that  suddenly  he  felt 
himself  getting  lost  and  nervous.  At  last  in  a  blind,  reck- 
less impulse,  he  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  box  of  matches 
and  lit  the  paper  which  he  had  packed  to  within  an  inch 
of  the  nearest  pool  of  oil.  He  must  not  back  out  now,  at 
any  rate.  He  had  a  good  enough  reason  if  he  stopped  to 
figure  it  out.  And  there  wasn't  time  for  that. 

Waiting  only  long  enough  to  see  the  fire  crawl  along 
the  paper  funnel  towards  the  oil,  he  made  his  way  to  the 
stairs,  and  slid  and  fell  through  nearly  its  whole  length 
to  the  first  floor.  Only  the  sharp  turns  stopped  him  again 
and  again  from  a  headlong  plunge. 

Once  he  thought  he  should  wait  until  he  heard  the  crack- 
ling of  the  flames.  But  there  would  be  a  blaze  with  this, 


THE    TAKER  199 

and  the  only  thing  to  do  now  was  to  get  out — quickly. 
Back  of  the  factory — some  three  blocks — was  the  Irving 
Street  Hill.  He  could  watch  from  there,  if  he  wanted  to. 

He  reached  the  shipping  room  in  safety,  and  in  another 
moment  was  out  in  the  cold,  clear  air.  His  first  glance 
was  at  the  shanty.  But  the  door  was  closed  and  from 
the  steady  reflection  of  the  watchman's  lantern  inside,  he 
knew  that  the  man  was  sleeping.  Then  he  looked  up.  A 
red  glow  seemed  to  be  reflected  in  some  of  the  fourth-story 
windows.  It  made  him  run,  without  looking  back  until  he 
was  out  of  the  yard  and  well  up  the  street.  Time  and 
again  he  had  to  fight  to  keep  from  turning  around.  He 
did  look  back  when  about  two  blocks  away.  And  then 
all  was  dark.  Which  was  hard  to  understand.  He  had 
distinctly  seen  a  glow.  It  must  have  been  his  imagina- 
tion. Yet  the  oil  was  there  and  the  burning  paper. 

Standing  in  the  warm  snow,  Lester  strangely  felt  a 
little  satisfied,  and  hoped  that  the  paper  would  go  out 
before  it  reached  the  oil.  He  was  a  little  remorseful,  too. 
After  all,  why  had  he  wanted  to  fire  the  building?  Or 
kill  Vernon,  for  that  matter? 

So  wrapt  was  he  in  this  reflection  that  when  the  flames 
burst  through  to  the  roof  of  the  factory  he  only  stared, 
transfixed,  for  a  time  forgetting  that  he  had  any  part 
in  it. 

Then  he  turned  quickly  and  began  to  run,  blindly. 

At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  he  wedged  himself  in 
between  two  cars  of  a  New  York  Central  freight  train 
rumbling  west. 

Strangely  he  had  run  in  a  circle,  and  was  only  a  few 
blocks  away  from  the  fire,  when  he  caught  the  freight. 

But  he  had  a  secret  pride  that  no  one  would  ever  know 
about  it.  He  saw  flames  mounting  into  the  sky,  and 


200  THE    TAKER 

heard  the  clanging  of  the  fire  engines  and  the  shouts  of 
running  people. 

And  not  one  of  them  knew  that  the  man  responsible  for 
all  this  was  calmly  laughing  as  his  train  went  away  across 
the  open  country. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

VERNON'S  first  moments  of  thought,  after  the  two 
servants  had  carried  him  into  the  library  of  his 
former  wife's  home,  and  placed  him  tenderly  on  a  divan, 
were  a  frantic  disarray  of  pain  and  bewilderment.  He 
saw  the  look  of  anxiety  on  Jennie's  face  and  heard  the 
authoritative  words  which  she  directed  at  the  servants. 

He  was  only  dimly  conscious  of  her  soft  hands  holding 
his  own,  or  of  the  sobs  that  shook  her  as  she  told  the  doc- 
tor how  they  had  carried  him  in  only  a  few  minutes  after 
they  had  heard  the  two  shots  fired. 

It  was  through  a  haze  of  mixed  emotions  that  he  per- 
ceived these  things. 

At  least  he  was  not  dead.  He  could  tell  this  because 
when  he  breathed  there  was  pain  and  when  he  could  get 
his  thoughts  down  to  it,  he  could  make  his  head  move  and 
raise  the  hand  of  his  other  arm. 

Then  the  doctor  dressed  his  arm  and  he  heard  the  re- 
mark that  it  was  only  a  very  slight  injury  of  the  flesh. 
And  finally  he  went  to  sleep  as  the  result  of  the  hypoder- 
mic needle  with  just  a  fleeting  impression  before  him  of 
Jennie's  sweet  sympathetic  face  as  she  anxiously  bent  over 
him  and  helped  the  doctor  dress  his  shoulder. 

Vernon  felt  much  better  in  the  morning  and  though 
news  of  the  fire  had  come  to  Jennie  during  the  night,  no 
word  was  carried  to  him. 

For  a  time  Leonard  found  it  difficult  to  project  into 
his  mind  what  had  happened.  Only  slowly  did  it  ebb  into 

201 


202  THE    TAKER 

his  consciousness  that  he  had  a  wound  in  his  shoulder  and 
was  now  in  a  very  soft  bed.  But  as  he  looked  around,  he 
seemed  to  recognise  the  cream-enamelled  furniture  and  the 
picture  of  "The  Angelus"  that  Jennie  had  brought  home 
one  evening  and  proudly  hung  over  her  dressing  table. 

The  sun  was  streaming  in  through  the  blinds  when  he 
saw  the  door  open  very  slowly  and  noiselessly.  Then 
Jennie  tiptoed  into  the  room.  When  she  saw  that  he  was 
awake  she  ran  quickly  to  his  side. 

"Oh,  Leonard,  Leonard,"  she  cried;  "are  you  all 
right?" 

He  noticed  that  she  was  a  great  deal  thinner  than  when 
he  had  last  seen  her.  And  that  the  dull  expression  had  en- 
tirely disappeared  from  her  face.  Instead  she  seemed  to 
be  more  alive,  even  through  the  tracings  of  unhappiness 
that  played  about  her  eyes. 

When  she  took  his  hands  and  placed  the  cooling  surface 
of  her  palms  upon  his  forehead  and  said:  "Leonard,  it's 
strange  we  should  meet  again,  this  way,  isn't  it  ?  And  by 
what  strange  Providence  I  should  have  come  back  in 
time  to  have  helped  you  when  you  needed  me,"  he  could 
not  help  feeling  less  guilty  of  his  treatment  of  her. 
Though  older  looking,  her  poise,  so  apparently  born  out 
of  suffering,  had  really  worked  for  her  good. 

But  he  controlled  himself  from  wording  this  thought 
and  said:  "It  is  all  very  strange,  Jennie,"  while  Jennie 
looked  down  at  his  face,  her  eyes  speaking  much  of  the 
old  love  for  him. 

Then  her  expression  clouded  as  she  exclaimed  suddenly : 
"Leonard,  we  must  notify — your  wife." 

"Yes,  I  guess  we  had  better,"  he  replied  after  some 
thought,  although  a  certain  distaste  for  the  idea  flashed 
through  him. 


THE    TAKER  203 

In  an  instant  the  woman  beside  him  f  renziedly  took  hold 
of  his  fingers : 

"Leonard,  I  know  you  are  not  happy.  Tell  me — are 
you?" 

Vernon  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  "Jen,"  he  said  quietly, 
"how  would  you  have  me  answer  that?" 

She  started  to  say  something,  then  with  her  handker- 
chief choked  off  the  words  at  her  lips.  At  last  she  turned 
to  him  again  and  said,  as  her  eyes,  happy  with  under- 
standing, sought  his  own:  "Let's  not  talk  about  it  now. 
Let's  wait  till  you're  stronger."  Vernon  could  see  how 
happy  and  confident  she  was  at  the  moment. 

And  a  pang  of  regret  filled  him  when  he  thought  of 
how  he  had  allowed  this  really  pretty  woman  to  slip  from 
him  for  Mabel. 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  Jennie  went  on,  "I've  already 
'phoned  for  her." 

She  looked  away  from  him  as  if  she  were  on  the  verge 
of  breaking  into  some  angry  outburst.  "It  was  the 
hardest  thing  I  ever  had  to  do,  Leonard,"  she  said. 

Now  a  servant  came  into  the  room  and  announced: 
"There's  a  tall  lady  just  getting  out  of  an  automobile." 

Jennie  jumped  up  quickly,  nervously  darting  toward 
the  window,  then  stopping,  as  if  a  second  thought  had 
restrained  her. 

"I  had  better  go  down  and  meet  her,"  she  said,  and 
turning  directly  to  Vernon,  added:  "It  is  all  for  your 
sake,  Leonard,  that  I  do  it." 

Then,  silently,  she  walked  out  of  the  room,  the  servant 
following  her. 

As  Vernon  studied  over  the  situation  he  reflected  that 
the  few  hours  they  had  been  together  had  really  brought 
a  change  in  Jennie's  expression.  But  his  reflections  were 


204  THE    TAKER 

cut  short  when  he  heard  the  voices  of  the  two  women  in 
the  hall  outside,  and  something  about  a  fire  which  he  took 
for  granted  had  to  do  with  the  shooting. 

Then  the  door  opened  and  Mabel,  white  and  tearful, 
wrapped  in  a  black  lace  coat,  plunged  into  the  room  and 
took  hold  of  his  hand. 

She  cried  wildly: 

"Leonard,  Leonard — what  has  happened?  Who  shot 
you?"  She  ran  on  crazily.  "Oh,  tell  me,  dear.  Why 
didn't  you  let  me  know  sooner?  I  didn't  know  what  had 
happened  to  you  last  night.  I  was  nearly  crazy  and 
'phoned  all  over  New  York." 

Before  Vernon  could  answer  her  the  tearful  woman 
turned  to  Jennie,  questioning  again,  how  it  had  all  hap- 
pened. 

"We  heard  two  shots  and  the  men  ran  out,"  Jennie 
answered  rigidly.  "I  followed  and  down  near  the  pavilion 
Vre  saw  Mr.  Vernon  lying  prostrate  in  the  snow.  There 
was  nobody  near  except  a  little  girl,  who  had  run  up.  The 
poor  little  thing  was  terribly  frightened.  Then  we  car- 
ried Mr.  Vernon  in  and  called  Dr.  Finney." 

"Oh,  how  terrible !  how  terrible !"  Mabel  moaned  as  she 
sorrowfully  looked  at  Vernon.  "He  might  have  died  from 
exposure."  Then  she  quickly  turned  to  Jennie  and  re- 
covering herself,  went  on  in  a  business-like  authoritative 
way  which  was  so  familiar,  "We  must  get  hold  of  the  little 
girl  and  immediately  have  her  interviewed  by  the  police. 
Maybe  she  saw  the  man  who  did  it  run  away."  Quietly 
placing  her  hand  on  Vernon's  arm,  she  asked:  "Do  you 
know  who  the  child  was,  Leonard?" 

Vernon  hesitated  before  he  groped  at  the  words :  "I — 
I — never  saw  her."  In  a  fashion  of  painful  reminiscence, 
he  managed  to  shape  an  explanation  that  he  had  turned 


THE    TAKER  205 

over  in  his  mind  many  times.  "I — I  had  a  hard  day  yes- 
terday and  left  the  office  too  late  to  come  home,  so  had 
dinner  at  the  Golf  Club  and  then — I  don't  know  what 
made  me  do  it — I  felt  like  walking." 

Both  women  hung  on  to  his  words  and  in  the  expres- 
sion of  each  was  the  message  that  he  must  conserve  his 
strength  and  not  speak. 

For  a  time  both  women  sat  quietly  regarding  him,  each 
apparently  waiting  for  the  other  to  begin  talking  again. 

Suddenly,  Mabel  rose  from  her  chair  and  in  a  very  pre- 
cise manner  said :  "Well,  we  must  call  the  ambulance  im- 
mediately to  take  Mr.  Vernon  home." 

This  brought  Jennie  to  her  feet  protesting  that  Vernon 
dare  not  be  moved  for  at  least  twenty-four  hours.  She 
made  this  claim  with  a  glance  at  Vernon  which  was  quite 
plain  with  the  silent  message :  "You  don't  want  to  go  home 
with  her,  do  you?" 

But  Mabel  walked  over  to  the  bed,  and  taking  Vernon's 
hand  said,  with  a  glance  toward  Jennie:  "It's  very  nice 
of  you  to  be  so  kind  to  us — but  I  think  it  will  be  safe  to 
move  Leonard,  since,  as  you  say,  the  wound  is  so  slight." 

In  a  flash  Jennie  became  defiant,  crying  excitedly:  "I 
am  just  telling  you  what  the  doctor  said."  And  the 
thought  struck  Vernon  that  Jennie  had  never  in  all  the 
time  he  had  been  with  her,  displayed  such  fire  and  life. 
She  surveyed  the  surprised  Mabel  with  a  vindictive  glitter 
in  her  eyes,  and  added :  "I  won't  allow  him  to  be  moved  at 
least  for  another  day." 

Mabel  looked  at  her.  There  was  a  very  apparent  effort 
to  control  her  indignation  and  astonishment.  "I  ap- 
preciate your  feelings  in  the  matter,"  she  said  calmly 
enough,  "however,  /  can  take  care  of  my  husband." 
Rather  haughtily  she  emphasised  the  "/"  and  "my." 


206  THE    TAKER 

Jennie  came  back  intensely: 

"You've  never  known  how  to  take  care  of  your  husband. 
He's  sick  of  you  and  you  know  it.  You  are  not  fitted  for 
each  other.  Since  I've  come  back,  I  hear  it's  common 
talk  in  the  town  how  Leonard  stays  away  from  you.  Why 
should  you  try  to  fool  yourself?" 

Mabel,  amazed  at  this  torrent  of  vindictiveness,  looked 
at  Vernon  who  sat  upright  in  the  bed. 

"We  are  all  together,"  Jennie  went  on.  "Go  ahead, 
ask  him  now,  how  happy  he  is  with  you.  I  dare  you." 

All  of  a  sudden  Jennie  lost  her  passion  and  began  to 
sob,  quite  hysterically,  and  with  the  words  "You  know 
you  have  ruined  my  life  and  his  as  well,"  ran  from  the 
room. 

Until  another  door  had  slammed  at  the  end  of  the  hall 
Mabel  stood  silently  at  Vernon's  side  fighting  back  the 
anger  that  betrayed  itself  in  crimson  blotches  on  her  pale, 
drawn  cheeks. 

Then  she  said  to  Vernon  in  anxious  tones:  "Leonard, 
what  would  you  have  said  to  her?" 

He  replied,  strangely  restless,  the  while  he  looked  away 
from  her  sad  face :  "Mabel,  I've  got  a  lot  to  think  about. 
I'd  like  to  be  alone  to-day.  You  come  over  in  the  morn- 
ing and  we  will  talk." 

An  expression  of  terrible  mental  agony  spread  over 
Mabel's  countenance ;  in  the  instant,  somehow,  she  seemed 
to  expect  a  solacing  word  from  him.  She  glared  at  him 
like  an  insane  woman.  Her  lower  lip  grew  bloodless  from 
the  pressure  of  her  teeth  as  she  fought  for  control,  while 
her  flat  chest  tumultuously  fought  for  breath. 

Then  silently,  like  an  automaton,  she  too,  turned  and 
groped,  rather  than  walked  her  way  out  of  the  room. 


THE    TAKER  207 

As  she  went  out,  Vernon  thought  he  caught  the  mur- 
mured word :  "And  from  my  own  husband,  too." 

At  seven  o'clock  that  evening,  Vernon  decided  to  go  to 
a  sanitarium  in  New  York  City. 

There  were  two  main  reasons  for  this  decision,  the  prin- 
cipal one  being  a  desire  to  see  Marcy  that  had  so  grown 
in  proportion  that  he  could  not  withstand  its  assault ;  the 
other  was  to  get  away  from  Jennie,  who  fought  with  hys- 
terical ardour  for  her  chance  to  win  him  back. 

Begging  again  for  his  love,  she  threw  herself  at  him 
with  an  abandon  that  made  him  all  the  more  conscious  of 
the  grey  hairs  at  her  temples  and  the  sad,  ageing  lines 
upon  her  face.  Vernon  was  perplexed  indeed  before  he 
made  his  decision.  Jennie  had  really  seemed  so  much 
younger  and  even  more  beautiful  until  her  fight  for  his 
love  showed  the  effect  of  the  passing  years. 

It  was  then  the  thought  of  Marcy  began  tugging  at  the 
strings  of  his  heart  and  mind.  He  saw  plainly  how  foolish 
it  was  to  waste  the  years  of  his  life,  just  out  of  weakness, 
on  a  woman  already  of  middle-age.  And  he  told  Jennie: 
"Jen,  dear  one,  what's  the  use  of  all  this?  Everything 
was  going  along  smoothly  until  this  accident ;  I  am  really 
fond  of  you,  but  I  don't  love  you.  If  I  told  you  I  did,  or 
thought  myself,  that  I  did,  we  would  both  be  getting 
fooled." 

"But  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  Leonard,  that's  all,"  she 
pleaded.  "You  love  me,  but  you  don't  know  it,  and  I 
am  so  miserable  without  the  man  I  love.  Why  can't  you 
see,  Lennie  ?  You  will  wear  yourself  out  with  this  hunting 
and  seeking  of  yours  for — God  knows  what." 

He  replied,  wondering  if  he  should  tell  her  the  truth 
and  amazed  at  the  moment  to  find  that  he  was  not  really 
sure  what  was  the  truth :  "Certain  natures  are  created  to 


208  THE    TAKER 

match  up  with  other  certain  natures,  Jen,"  ending  up  by 
saying  in  a  philosophical  manner  that  what  had  happened 
had  been  for  the  best.  "I'll  know  when  I  have  met  that 
nature.  We  cannot  defy  the  natural  laws  that  govern 
us,"  he  added. 

So,  at  about  seven  o'clock,  Vernon's  limousine  called  for 
him  and,  accompanied  by  the  stout  Dr.  Finney,  he  rode 
into  New  York.  And  at  a  few  minutes  before  nine  he  was 
sitting  in  a  large  barren  room  of  the  Allendale  Private 
Sanitarium,  near  Central  Park,  peering  out  over  the 
gaunt  shadowing  framework  of  a  business  monument  being 
built  across  the  street  and  searching  in  his  mind  for  some 
way  to  get  word  to  Marcy. 

At  about  the  same  time,  Jennie  was  sitting  in  her 
library  reading  a  note  that  had  come  to  her  and  that  to 
its  minutest  scrawl  showed  a  hand  working  under  the  stress 
of  a  belaboured  mind.  The  note  ran : 

"You  will  never  know  what  I  have  suffered  since  I  left  you 
and  Leonard  this  morning.  It  is  strange  that  we  should  love 
him  so.  He  is  such  a  child  in  many  ways,  and  so  helpless. 
His  faults  are  many,  and  some  even  dangerous.  Perhaps 
that  is  what  has  called  both  of  us  to  him.  At  least  I  have 
always  had  the  feeling  that  he  was  my  child  and  that,  like  a 
mother,  I  must  be  the  one  for  him  to  come  home  to. 

"I  am  heartbroken  now.  He  doesn't  care  for  me  any  more 
and  I  see  that  he  loves  you,  as  much  as  it  is  possible  to  one 
so  selfish.  I  knew  it  would  come.  Everything  he  has 
said  lately  has  shown  me  he  was  thinking  of  you  again.  I've 
fought  hard  against  it,  too.  What  am  I  to  do?  Perhaps, 
after  all,  this  has  been  a  terrible  mistake  and  I  am  to  blame. 
At  least,  if  he  loves  you,  surely  I,  who  love  him,  must  not 
stand  in  his  way.  A  mother  does  not  willingly  hurt  her  boy. 

"It  is  so  hard  to  write  this  to  you,  for  my  surrender  is  a 
bitter  one.  There  have  been  times  when  we  have  met  in  the 


THE    TAKER  209 

same  homes,  that  I  have  felt  like  coming  up  to  you  and  ask- 
ing your  forgiveness  for  having  taken  him  away  from  you. 
But  I  was  fighting  then,  the  way  you  are  now,  to  be  happy. 
It  must  be  that  this  is  my  punishment. 

"Take  him  back.  Only  make  him  happy!  That  is  all  I 
ask  of  you,  for  I  love  beyond  all  reason  except  this  one.  I 
want  to  know  that  he  is  smiling  again.  I  will  try  to  find  some 
solace  in  knowing  that  I  had  a  few  years  at  least  of  a  happi- 
ness that  I  was  growing  to  believe  would  never  come  to  me. 
Will  you  tell  him  this  for  me?" 

In  a  scrawl  that  trailed  off  to  where  a  few  tears  had 
fallen  on  the  paper  was  barely  decipherable — "Mabel 
Vernon." 

And  as  Jennie  read  over  the  words  of  this  woman  who 
loved  even  as  she  loved,  tears  fell  from  her  eyes  onto  the 
missive  in  her  hand. 

But  when  she  went  to  the  telephone  after  more  than 
an  hour  of  racking  heart-ache,  her  pride  would  not  let 
her  confess  the  truth. 

"I  am  glad  you  understand  the  situation,"  were  her 
words  to  the  stricken  Mabel.  "He  is  upstairs,  and  I'll 
tell  him  what  you've  done — for  us." 

When  Jennie  put  the  receiver  on  its  hook,  she  weakly 
clung  to  the  little  projecting  steel  arms  for  support. 

Quite  to  herself  she  moaned:  "Oh,  why  couldn't  it  be 
true?  Why  did  he  leave  me?" 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

MARCY  slept  only  little  the  night  of  the  shooting. 
And  that  sleep  was  a  transparent  one,  anxious,  har- 
assing— like  the  doze  secured  in  a  railway  coach  while 
travelling  at  top  speed,  through  which  come  sensations 
and  you  can  hear  and  feel.  When  she  actually  awoke  in 
the  morning,  she  found  herself  leaping  from  one  wild  fear 
to  another,  her  thoughts  so  full  that  even  the  fire  at  the 
factory  was  not  attended  to,  in  her  mind,  till  some  hours 
later. 

Her  main  fear  was  that  she  would  hear  that  Vernon  was 
dead.  And  again  she  thought  that  Lester  might  come 
back  and  kill  her,  too.  This  last  she  even  prayed  would 
happen  if  Vernon  had  actually  been  killed. 

And  all  the  time  she  kept  repeating  in  groups  of  two 
and  then  for  better  luck,  in  groups  of  three,  the  phrase : 

"Oh,  dear  Lord,  spare  my  sweetheart,  please — please — 
dear  Lord." 

Her  fearful  state  of  mind  was  not  lifted  the  next  morn- 
ing. When  she  arrived  at  the  corner  of  the  building  and 
found  the  crowds  viewing  the  giant  skeleton  of  the  whole 
top  floor  and  roof,  she  could  hardly  control  herself.  And 
as  she  walked  in  through  the  great  iron  entrance,  after 
being  told  that  work  would  go  on  as  usual,  she  felt  that 
the  eyes  of  every  one  in  the  place  were  turned  on  her  and 
penetrating  her  thoughts. 

She  was  happy  indeed  when  she  found  that  no  infor- 
mation about  Vernon  apparently  had  reached  any  of  the 

210 


THE    TAKER  211 

office  force.  Thus  she  reasoned  that  if  he  had  been  killed 
surely  there  would  be  some  word  sent. 

Then  Vernon  did  not  come  at  noon,  and  word  was 
passed  around  that  he  was  ill  and  was  unable  to  leave 
his  bed. 

Strangely,  everybody  just  stood  about  and  made  no 
comments.  She  felt  like  running  up  to  them  and  saying: 

"I  suppose  you  think  he's  in  New  York  or  sick.  But 
7  know  better." 

Throughout  the  day  she  endured  his  absence.  Then 
hesitating,  halting,  as  if  a  word  aloud  about  her  injured 
lover  were  sacrilegious,  she  approached  an  old  clerk  in 
the  shipping  room. 

"Is  there  anything  wrong  with  Mr.  Vernon?  He  did 
not  come  in  to-day,  did  he?" 

The  man  answered :  "We've  had  word  that  he  has  had 
a  slight  accident.  That's  all  we  know.  He  doesn't  know 
about  the  fire  yet." 

She  ventured  further.  "Do  you  know — if  he  was  hurt 
badly?" 

"He's  been  hurt.  That's  all  we  know.  I  guess  it's 
nothing  serious."  He  looked  at  her  over  his  glasses. 

Unconsciously  she  gasped:  "Oh,  I'm  glad." 

But  the  man  did  not  notice,  and  she  was  happy,  walking 
back  to  her  desk  with  a  picture  projected  in  her  imagina- 
tion of  Vernon  sitting  up  in  a  chair,  with  his  arm  in  a 
bandage  and  smiling. 

It  was  the  next  day  she  received  this  message : 

"Marcy,  I'm  in  New  York.  In  a  private  Hospital,  the 
Allendale,  on  Sixty-fifth  Street,  just  off  Central  Park.  I 
want  you  to  come  in  to-morrow,  during  the  afternoon.  Make 
some  excuse  at  the  factory,  or  just  leave  without  any  excuse. 


212  THE    TAKER 

Take  a  taxi  from  the  Grand  Central  Station.    I  must  see  you. 
Come  sure,  dear  Marcy. 

"P.  S. — Have  heard  about  the  fire.  But  no  need  to  worry. 
Am  fully  insured — and  other  things  are  much  more  impor- 
tant." 

It  was  unsigned  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  note  was 
scribbled  the  words :  "Tear  up  as  soon  as  you  read  it." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

next  afternoon  Marcy  rode  in  to  New  York.  A 
change  had  taken  place  in  her,  distinct  and  well  de- 
fined. 

During  the  whole  trip  into  the  city  she  sat  in  her  seat, 
thinking  and  recapitulating.  She  was  going  to  Vernon 
because  he  had  sent  for  her.  She  was  the  one  he  had 
called  upon  for  help.  These  were  the  two  principal  ideas 
that  sent  vibrant  messages  to  her  heart. 

Meditative  and  quiet,  with  a  thrill  of  happiness  per- 
vading her  whenever  she  visualised  her  meeting  with  Ver- 
non, Marcy  sat  in  the  yellow  cushioned  seat  of  the  coach, 
looking  fixedly  out  of  the  window. 

With  a  faint  smile,  pirouetting  about  her  full  lips,  she 
gazed  out  at  telephone  poles  as  they  shot  past  her  window 
and  as  she  watched  and  tried  to  count  them,  she  likened 
each  one  to  an  obstacle  brushed  away  in  her  progress 
toward  Vernon. 

On  arriving  in  New  York  she  had  some  trouble  in  find- 
ing a  taxi,  as  all  at  the  station  were  taken.  But  she 
went  about  the  task  of  finding  one  with  resolute  mien,  de- 
termined now  that  she  had  responsibilities,  to  manage  well. 
Somehow,  she  felt  that  this  was  the  burial  time  of  her  old 
life.  She  told  herself  that  now  she  must  act  calmly  and 
experienced,  that  new  things  would  happen  to  her.  She 
was  a  woman  now,  not  a  little  girl — and  the  most  wonder- 
ful man  in  the  world  was  waiting  for  her. 

But  the  city  bewildered  her  as  the  taxicab  jerked  her 
through  the  streets.  The  great  buildings,  the  long  bridges 

213 


214  THE    TAKER 

through  the  streets  with  trains  rushing  over  them,  like 
huge  crawling  black  bugs ;  the  pall  shed  from  the  dull  sky 
onto  the  shining  sides  of  the  towers ;  one  street  that  looked 
like  a  dark  ravine — all  this  gave  her  a  sinister  lonely  feel- 
ing, as  if  something  would  topple  over  her  and  crush  her 
— as  if  she  might  get  lost  among  all  the  people  and  never 
be  able  to  find  herself  again.  Three  times  she  knocked  on 
the  window  and  stopped  the  driver,  and  in  her  quaint 
childish  voice  asked  him  if  he  was  sure  he  was  driving  to 
the  right  place. 

When  she  was  shown  in  to  Vernon,  she  found  him  prop- 
ped up  in  bed,  his  left  shoulder  bandaged  heavily,  his  face 
pale.  Silently  she  sat  down  beside  him  while  the  white- 
gowned  nurse  hastily  fixed  his  pillows,  smiled  and  left  the 
room. 

In  the  hall  outside  came  the  stern  voice  of  a  nurse  and 
the  feeble  words  of  a  protesting  patient.  But  she  was 
alone  with  Vernon.  It  was  hard  to  believe.  It  did  not 
seem  real  that  she,  Marcy  Moore,  could  be  in  this  room 
with  Vernon,  her  hands  held  by  him  while  his  face  looked 
so  happily  into  her  own. 

The  wonder  of  it !  That  same  day  she  had  been  wash- 
ing the  breakfast  dishes  in  her  little  kitchen  and  thinking 
that  she  would  never  see  him  again. 

Vernon  looked  at  her  and  studied  her.  She  tried  to  be 
brave  and  look  back  at  him.  But  somehow,  his  glance 
was  a  chasm  over  which  she  could  not  leap.  So  she  bowed 
her  head,  and  when  he  said:  "Marcy,  little  girl,  you  are 
awfully  sweet  to  have  come  to  me,"  she  could  only  answer 
back:  "I'm  awful  glad  to  be  here,  Mr.  Vernon.  Please 
don't  talk  like  that." 

He  touched  her  hand  gently.  "You  know  why  I  sent 
for  you?" 


THE    TAKER  215 

Still  unable  to  bear  up  under  his  gaze  she  replied,  "Be- 
cause you  wanted  to  see  me,  I  guess." 

She  thought  that  in  another  moment  he  would  put  his 
free  arm  around  her  and  draw  her  to  him  and  kiss  her 
and  then  she  would  let  him  know  how  terribly  sorry  she 
was  and  how  she  loved  him. 

When  she  heard  him  say  bitterly,  "I've  learned  who 
shot  me,  Marcy,"  she  was  too  astounded  to  move. 

Calmly,  seriously,  he  said:  "It  was  a  young  fellow 
named  Moore.  One  of  my  employees.  But  tell  me,"  with, 
his  fingers  he  lifted  her  chin,  "this  fellow  wasn't  a — sweet- 
heart of  yours,  was  he?" 

She  fought  for  some  word,  some  untruth  even,  that 
would  hold  him  to  her. 

When  she  failed  to  answer,  he  said,  again  kindly: 
"Answer  me,  Marcy." 

It  was  then  that  Marcy  looked  up  and  Vernon  saw  that 
her  pretty  face  was  strangely  pale,  and  her  lips  were 
quivering  as  if  she  were  on  the  verge  of  tears.  When  she 
continued  to  stare  at  him  without  a  word  Vernon  took  her 
hand  and  patted  it,  saying,  "Marcy,  you  must  tell  me, 
dear.  Don't  be  frightened.  I  just  want  to  know." 

At  last  she  cried :     "Oh,  Mr.  Vernon,  I  can't  tell  you." 

And  now  the  man  leaned  over  nearer  to  her.  "Why, 
Marcy,  I  didn't  mean  to  make  you  unhappy.  I'm  not 
blaming  you.  I  just  wanted  to  know.  But  I  guess  you 
don't  need  to  tell  me  now,"  he  added. 

Vernon  turned  away  from  her  and  even  through  her 
tear-filled  eyes,  Marcy  could  see  the  set  look  that  crept 
into  his  face.  Instantly  she  cried  out,  telling  herself  that 
she  must  not  lose  him,  no  matter  what  the  cost : 

"Oh,  please,  please,  don't  turn  away  from  me  like  that. 
I  have  been  so  lonely  for  you,  I've  been  nearly  cra^v." 


216  THE    TAKER 

"Tell  me  about  the  boy,"  Vernon  muttered,  persist- 
ingly.  Thinking  that  she  might  bridge  over  his  sus- 
picion, she  replied,  in  nearly  a  whisper,  "There  is  hardly 
anything  to  tell  about — about  him.  I  just  hated  him, 
that's  all.  He  was  so  common  and  mean."  Slowly  she 
added,  "I  don't  know  why  he  wanted  you  to  like  me." 

A  flash  stole  over  Vernon's  face.  "What  do  you  mean, 
Marcy?" 

"Why,  he  wanted  us  to  be  good  friends." 

"Then  you  knew  him  ?" 

Before  she  could  stop,  the  words  were  out — "He  was 
my  husband." 

Vernon  sank  back  upon  his  pillow.  Anger  visibly  rose 
within  him,  while  a  spot  of  scarlet  appeared  high  on  his 
cheeks.  When  he  spoke  to  her,  his  voice  was  vibrant  with 
passion. 

"You  mean  to  say  that  he  was  your  husband  and  you 
never  told  me — that  you  are  married — that  you  have  been 
married  all  the  time?  Marcy,"  he  demanded,  "look  at 
me !  You  mean  all  this  ?" 

Marcy  sat  rigid  and  silent.  As  the  caged  animal 
enigmatically  peers  out  at  onlookers,  she  sat  in  her  chair, 
looking  at  Vernon.  She  could  not  talk  nor  answer  him, 
as  if  she  had  become  rigid,  frozen  up  within  herself.  It 
seemed  unreal  to  have  him  angry  with  her.  It  was  hard 
to  believe — in  the  face  of  all  the  kindness  she  had  expected 
to  get  and  to  give.  At  last,  just  as  the  tears  came  to  her 
eyes,  she  saw  that  his  anger  was  rising  and  she  faltered, 
"Oh,  please  don't  speak  so  hard  to  me." 

Vernon  was  trembling.  "But  haven't  you  an  explana- 
tion, Marcy?"  he  demanded.  "Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
you  were  Moore's  wife?  You  knew  all  the  time  I  simply 
thought  you — one  of  the  girls." 


THE    TAKER  217 

For  a  considerable  time  he  reflected  over  the  situation. 

"And  so  you  are  a  wife.  You've  certainly  made  a  fool 
of  me." 

Marcy  reached  over  and  hesitatingly  took  hold  of  his 
clenched  hand  and  kissed  it.  "Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  she 
murmured,  while  the  thought  came  to  her  that  she  could 
hold  back  his  anger  by  making  him  feel  sorry  for  her.  "I 
wish  I  could  make  you  understand." 

"Understand !     Why  didn't  you  tell  me  long  ago  ?" 

Feebly  she  answered:  "I  just  don't  know.  Honestly,  I 
just  don't  understand  myself.  I  do  know  I  was  afraid  to, 
at  first,  because — because  I  thought  maybe — you  wouldn't 
like  me  if  you  thought  I  was  married.  And  I  wanted  you 
to  like  me  so  much."  Resolutely  she  went  on:  "But  now 
I  feel  so  different.  I  feel  older — like  I  could  understand 
anything  you  would  say  to  me."  Tears  flowed  over  on  to 
her  face  as  she  cried,  "Oh,  please  don't  blame  me.  If 
you  don't  love  me  now  I  think  I'll  just  kill  myself." 

But  Vernon  laughed  a  little  and  then,  after  a  long  in- 
quisitional study  of  her,  went  on  sternly : 

"Marcy,  I  guess  you'd  better  go.  I  have  been  a  fool, 
a  weakling.  You  are  only  an  ignorant  little  girl."  He 
turned  painfully  from  her.  "Yes ;  you  had  better  go,"  he 
said — as  if  there  had  been  just  a  moment  of  doubt  in  his 
determination. 

Marcy  rose  from  her  chair  and  silently  stood  at  the 
side  of  the  bed,  as  if  willing  to  receive  further  reprimand. 

In  the  tones  that  a  father  addresses  his  child,  Vernon 
said :  "Oh,  I  don't  blame  you  so  much,  child.  No,  not  as 
much  as  I  blame  myself.  I  am  sorry,  little  girl." 

"You  mean  you  honestly  want  me  to  go  ?" 

"Yes,  Marcy." 

Realising  for  the  first  time  that  Vernon  was  actually 


218  THE    TAKER 

driving  her  away,  that  he  apparently  cared  no  longer 
for  the  love  that  she  was  so  willing  to  give,  Marcy  could 
not  keep  from  wording  the  thought  that  pulled  at  her 
heart. 

<£What  were  you  going  to  do  with  me,  then  ?  Just  be- 
cause you  thought  I  was  an  innocent  little  girl,  you 
wanted  me  near  you.  And  now  when  you  know  I'm — I've 
suffered — you  hate  me." 

She  walked  from  him  now  to  the  door,  sobbing  slowly, 
intermittently,  thinking  that  he  surely  would  call  to  her 
before  she  went  out. 

But  he  lay  silently — only  watching  her.  At  the  door 
she  hesitated,  waiting  for  his  word.  She  was  conscious 
only  of  his  glances  at  her  back.  Then  she  went  out  in  the 
hall  and  walked  towards  the  elevator,  while  each  step 
made  her  hate  the  pride  that  kept  her  from  running  back 
to  him  and  throwing  herself  by  the  side  of  the  bed,  beg- 
ging for  his  mercy.  Many  times  before  she  reached  the 
end  of  the  hall  she  sobbed  to  herself,  "Oh,  he's  so  mean. 
What  am  I  going  to  do?" 

Curious,  indeed,  was  her  state  of  mind.  Wanting  to 
run  from  him  now  while  anger  held  her,  she  felt  he  needed 
her  more  than  ever;  that  she  ought  to  make  him  under- 
stand she  was  older,  and  wiser  than  he  was — a  feeling 
the  mother  has  toward  the  wayward  son.  She  really  felt 
that  she  ought  to  go  back;  just  for  his  sake,  if  not  for 
her  own. 

Then  the  door  of  the  elevator  opened  and  a  woman  got 
out  whom  Marcy  immediately  recognised. 

In  that  moment  of  conf rontal  Marcy  felt  a  strange  sen- 
sation of  guilt,  as  if  she  had  stolen  something  and  was 
being  caught. 


THE    TAKER  219 

"What  are  you  'doing  here?"  Marcy  heard  the  woman 
say. 

She  must  answer  bravely,  she  saw,  even  take  this  oppor- 
tunity to  assert  her  rights.  So,  very  defiantly,  even  a 
little  sneeringly,  she  said:  "Why  I — I  came  to  see  Mr. 
Vernon." 

The  elevator  door  was  closing,  and  seeing  a  possible 
escape,  she  started  to  push  past  them  into  the  half-closed 
door.  "Wait,"  she  said  to  the  nurse  inside,  "I'm  going 
down.'* 

But  the  woman  quickly  grasped  her  by  the  wrist,  say- 
ing authoritatively:  "I  want  to  speak  to  you  first,"  and 
motioned  to  the  nurse. 

As  soon  as  the  door  had  banged  shut,  Jennie  began, 
in  hard,  bitter  tones :  "Oh,  don't  look  so  frightened.  You 
are  not  so  innocent.  We  heard  all  about  it  this  morning. 
It  was  your  husband  and  he  skipped  from  the  factory. 
We've  found  out  everything." 

She  went  on  passionately,  ridden  by  temper.  "What 
are  you  trying  to  do — you  little  brat?  Break  up  homes? 
Isn't  it  enough  that  Mr.  Vernon  was  nearly  killed  through 
you?" 

Many  words  in  defence  rushed  into  Marcy's  mind. 
Words  of  defiance,  of  self-vindication,  of  self-blame.  At 
last,  all  she  could  say  was,  "I'm  not  trying  to  do  anything. 
I'm  terribly  sorry !" 

"Well,  you  had  better  stop.  There's  been  enough  of 
this.  His  wife  has  been  as  blind  as  a  bat,  too." 

Suddenly  Vernon's  commanding  voice  cried  from  the 
end  of  the  hall,  "Jennie,  come  here,"  while  two  white- 
gowned  nurses  ran  out  into  the  corridor  to  see  what  was 
happening. 

"Now,  don't  you  dare  come  here  again,"  Jennie  thrust 


220  THE    TAKER 

at  Marcy  as  she  turned  towards  Vernon's  room.  "Do  you 
understand?"  She  was  quite  on  the  point  of  taking 
Marcy's  wrists  to  emphasise  her  words,  when  some  better 
judgment  stopped  her. 

Then  she  turned  and  went  down  the  hall. 

While  Marcy  waited  for  the  elevator  there  came  the 
fragments  of  bitter  words  from  Vernon,  which  at  least 
was  some  satisfaction.  Listening  strainedly,  she  heard 
the  former  wife  plead :  "You've  no  right  to  be  angry  with 

me,  Leonard.  Dr.  Finney "  then  the  elevator  door 

opened  and  she  could  hold  back  no  longer. 

All  the  way  home  the  woman's  harsh  words  echoed  in 
Marcy's  ears ;  while  as  she  looked  out  of  the  car  window, 
hot  tears  poured  from  her  eyes  at  the  very  thought  of 
not  seeing  Vernon  again.  And  to  the  flying  hills  and  trees 
she  cried,  again  and  again,  "Oh,  God!  please  won't  you 
help  me  ?" 

Reaching  home,  she  was  still  dazed  and  unhappy,  hardly 
knowing  what  to  do  beyond  sitting  in  the  dining  room 
rocking  chair  and  rocking  back  and  forth.  She  sat  there 
until  it  grew  very  dark,  until  the  moon  came  out  and 
threw  a  white  spot  on  the  rug  at  her  feet.  Noises  of 
passing  trains  or  automobiles,  whose  passengers,  she 
thought,  little  knew  of  her  misery,  came  to  her  ears,  but 
they  seemed  to  come  from  a  great  distance,  from  some 
other  world  than  her  own.  No  longer  did  she  cry.  In- 
stead, all  the  heartache  and  mind-pain  seemed  to  have 
gone  into  her  body,  into  her  arms  and  legs,  and  held  them 
numb  and  stiff,  so  that  she  could  not  get  up  or  walk. 

It  was  midnight  before  vague  thoughts  again  began 
trickling  into  Marcy's  senses.  And  then  they  came  in  a 
tumultuous  horde,  every  sweet  word  Vernon  had  said,  all 
the  hopes  she  had  built  up  so  fantastically.  It  was  al- 


THE    TAKER  221 

most  as  if  they  were  outlined  .  .  .  like  figures  walking 
past,  with  drooping,  grotesque  heads,  bowed  and  hanging 
loosely. 

Gradually,  as  she  sat  thinking,  a  great  fear  encom- 
passed her;  a  fear  that  the  sides  of  the  world  were 
closing  in  on  her  and  crushing  her. 

And  all  she  could  do  was  to  sit  calmly  and  wait. 

For  a  moment,  she  thought  of  the  revolver  in  the  kit- 
chen— with  four  queer-looking  leaden  things  filling  its 
chambers,  and  she  groped  her  way  out  in  the  darkness 
and  opening  the  table  drawer,  took  hold  of  the  pistol  and 
pointed  it  at  her  breast,  and  only  the  thought  that  Ver- 
non  might  some  day  want  her  made  her  put  the  revolver 
back  in  the  drawer  and  return  to  her  bedroom. 

"Perhaps  I'll  hear  from  him  the  first  thing  to-morrow,'* 
she  said  to  herself.  "Then  how  terrible  it  would  be  if 
I  was  dead." 

Possibly  premonitions  are  an  exact  combination  of 
molecules  of  thought,  depending  for  their  integrity  upon 
some  combination  resting  in  another's  brain.  At  least  it 
was  quite  at  this  moment  that  the  conscience-stricken  Ver- 
non,  full  of  yearning,  after  a  day  of  wearisome  harangue 
with  Jennie,  and  hours  of  soul-scanning  that  always 
ended  with  Marcy,  reached  over  to  his  table  by  the  bed, 
and  with  an  awkward  lump  rising  in  his  throat,  wrote  the 
following : 

"Marcy — forgive  me.  Things  have  happened  that  make 
me  see  there  is  only  one  thing  to  do.  Please  forgive  me  and 
come  when  you  get  this." 

At  that  moment,  he  wished  he  might  have  dared  to 
pen  her  that  he  loved  her. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

AT  noon  of  the  next  day,  Marcy  was  again  at  his 
bedside. 

"Sit  down,  Marcy,"  he  said,  after  the  first  greeting. 
"Let's  talk  this  thing  over."  He  pointed  to  a  chair  which 
she  drew  up,  close  to  his  side.  Then  with  her  hand  resting 
in  his,  he  began: 

"My  only  prayer  is  that  I  can  make  you  understand 
me  in  the  right  way.  And  that  won't  be  easy.  A  whole 
lot  of  women  would  say  I  am  simply  bad  if  they  knew 
what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you.  And  a  lot  of  men  who 
did  not  understand,  might  condemn  me.  I  may  be  wrong, 
but  my  nature  is  made  after  a  certain  pattern,  and  I 
don't  feel  sorry  for  myself  at  all.  Anyway,  I  have 
dreamed  about  you,  had  before  me  your  pretty  face,  your 
eJes»  your  lips,  ever  since  yesterday — in  fact  ever  since 
you  walked  into  my  office.  I  can't  explain  it  to  myself, 
Marcy.  I  just  know  that  in  me  are  certain  demands  on 
life,  and  that  I  must  grant  them.  I  owe  that  much  allegi- 
ance to  myself.  Men  who  don't  understand  this  fact  are 
fools."  He  drew  himself  nearer  to  her,  saying:  "The  tree 
of  my  nature  was  planted  for  me.  I  can  only  gather  the 
fruit  it  bears.  It's  the  way  I  am  and  the  way  I've  got  to 
be."  He  reached  over  and  took  her  other  hand,  saying, 
"I  wonder  if  you  can  understand  all  this,  Marcy?" 

When  she  looked  down  without  answering,  he  went  on : 
"Marcy,  that  was  my  first  wife  who  was  here  just  after 
you  left,  yesterday.  She  wanted  me  to  come  back,  wants 

222 


THE    TAKER  223 

to  make  me  happy  again,  she  says.  You  see,  she  wouldn't 
understand  if  I  told  her  that  I,  myself,  have  nothing  to 
do  with  the  management  of  my  happiness.  You  see, 
Marcy,"  he  confessed  on,  "I  know  I  might  suffer  for  want- 
ing  y°u  the  way  I  do,  but  it  is  not  in  my  province  to 
change  my  yearning  and  desires." 

"What  about  your  present  wife?"  asked  Marcy. 

"There  is  the  very  thing  I  want  to  tell  you  about.  My 
wife  and  I  are  very  unhappy.  In  fact,  there  has  never 
been  a  moment  that  I  have  known  the  slightest  thrill  when 
I  was  with  her.  It's  the  old  problem  about  marriage.  The 
very  happiness  that  you  try  to  get  by  marriage  is  shut 
off  by  making  it  legal.  The  wedding  ring  is  the  iron 
prison  of  love.  And  love  can't  be  imprisoned.  These  are 
queer  ideas,  I  suppose,"  he  went  on,  "but  there's  a  change 
taken  place  in  me.  I  see  what  fools  people  are  to  imagine 
that  there  is  only  one  institution  in  life — and  that  it  is  big 
enough  to  hold  everybody.  I've  been  under  its  roof, 
Marcy,  and  now  I  am  going  to  get  out.  After  all  I  have 
only  got  a  few  years  left  that  mean  anything." 

Marcy  faltered,  "Oh,  please  don't  talk  like  that,  Mr. 
Vernon." 

"We've  got  to  look  things  in  the  face,  Marcy ." 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment  and  then  said  slowly,  and 
with  determination:  "Marcy,  you  have  been  with  me  for 
a  year  now,  haven't  you?" 

She  replied :  "Yes ;  I  think  it  is  about  a  year." 

"And  in  that  time  a  great  big  idea  has  been  growing 
up  with  us,  hasn't  it?" 

When  she  failed  to  answer,  he  said:  "You  must  think 
about  what  I  am  saying,  Marcy."  Then  he  continued 
slowly,  his  voice  lowered  to  nearly  a  whisper;  as  if  he 
were  afraid  to  give  the  words  full  strength : 


224  THE    TAKER 

"You  know  you  are  built  a  certain  way,  Marcy — you 
are  slender  and  frail  and  not  made  for  real  hardship."  He 
glanced  at  her  bosom  which  was  moving  uneasily.  "I  have 
watched  a  lot  of  girls  and  women,  and  I  believe  I  know 
their  natures.  You  are  like  some  flower,  soft  and  deli- 
cate and  tender,  that  in  the  springtime  is  very  beautiful. 
That's  like  you  when  you  are  young,  as  you  are  now. 
But  when  summer  comes — when  you  get  older,  Marcy,  like 
that  flower,  you  must  be  pretty  well  taken  care  of  or  you 
will  die. 

"Don't  you  see?  Here  you  are,  plodding  away  with  a 
lot  of  girls  who  are  different  from  you,  whose  natures 
have  been  made  to  have  a  coarse  life.  Yet  you  are  ex- 
posed to  the  same  things  that  they  are.  Don't  you  feel 
it,  sometimes?" 

He  watched  the  effect  of  his  words. 

Still  she  did  not  answer. 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  will  think  of  me,"  he  went  on, 
"but  I  can't  help  it.  At  least,  I've  got  one  religion  and 
that  is,  that  no  one  should  suffer  through  any  fault  of 
mine.  No  one  ever  has,  Marcy,  and  you  will  not  be  the 
first.  Anyway,  look  at  the  fix  you  are  in  now " 

"Please,  let's  not  talk  about  that,"  she  interrupted. 

And  for  the  first  time  Vernon  lost  his  stern,  argumenta- 
tive manner.  He  saw  that  with  one  leap  he  could  not 
change  her  nature  with  its  rigid  middle-class  morals.  He 
must  take  time,  and  since  it  was  so  important  to  him,  there 
must  not  be  one  false  step.  So  he  said,  as  he  gently  put 
his  fingers  over  her  hand:  "I'm  sorry,  Marcy,  to  talk  all 
this  stuff  to  you." 

So  there  was  nothing  definite  accomplished  by  their  talk 
that  day.  In  the  two  hours  which  Marcy  spent  with  him, 
she  had  said  hardly  a  word.  And  she  went  back  to  her 


THE    TAKER  225 

lonely  home  that  night,  washed  the  dishes  from  a  hastily 
prepared  meal  of  cornflakes  and  coffee,  and  tumbled  into 
bed,  dulled  and  stupefied  by  the  perplexing  array  of 
events  that  confronted  her. 

The  next  day  it  was  decided,  partly  through  the  in- 
fluence of  her  father,  that  Marcy  live  with  an  aunt,  whose 
cottage  was  only  a  block  from  the  factory.  She  could 
not  understand  why  her  father  wanted  this  rather  than 
have  her  come  to  live  with  him.  The  thought  came  to 
her  that  he  did  not  want  her  around  him,  where  his  now 
almost  continuous  drinking  might  be  interfered  with. 

The  following  days  were  spent  with  only  one  thought 
filling  her  mind.  She  was  awaiting  Vernon's  return  to  the 
factory.  Nothing  else  counted,  not  even  the  patronising 
courtesy  given  her  by  the  other  employees,  or  by  the 
blonde-headed  foreman  of  her  department.  She  did  not 
even  stop  to  think  it  strange  that  no  excuse  for  her  ab- 
sence should  be  asked  of  her.  That  every  one  was  ac- 
quainted suddenly  with  her  friendship  to  her  employer, 
mattered  little.  In  fact,  the  knowledge  that  they  should 
know  of  her  intimacy  with  Vernon,  pleased  her  immeas- 
urably. 

The  only  thing  that  did  bother  her  was  that  her  father 
was  drinking  more  heavily  than  ever.  A  few  hundred 
dollars  that  for  years  had  been  kept  safely  in  the  Hast- 
ings' Bank  of  Savings  was  drawn  on  and  the  broken  man 
seemed  determined  to  fill  his  bloated  frame  with  liquor. 
He  seemed  to  be  a  victim  of  life's  emptiness — as  there  was 
no  other  reason  nor  was  there  the  intelligence  necessary 
to  a  plan  of  self-destruction.  He  was  one  who  somehow 
must  needs  go  into  disintegration  at  the  end,  just  as  there 
are  others  who  are  destined  to  rise  and  succeed  without 
particular  effort. 


226  THE    TAKER 

It  was  at  the  end  of  Vernon's  fortnight  of  absence  that 
Marcy  became  aware  that  her  father  was  on  a  death-deal- 
ing spree.  And  nothing  she  could  do  would  stop  him. 
From  one  bar  to  the  other  he  wandered,  feebly,  unsteadily, 
his  mouth  quivering,  his  eyes  red  and  watery.  At  one 
saloon  he  was  allowed  to  sit  behind  a  table  and  drink. 
And  this  corner  he  then  sought  out  every  day  and  tried 
to  gather  around  him  a  few  of  the  hangers-on.  To  these 
he  related  stories  about  Vernon — all  the  hate  of  his  use- 
less life  seemed  to  have  centred  on  his  prosperous  employer. 

The  day  before  he  died  he  filled  his  flabby,  loose  body 
with  glass  after  glass  of  whiskey,  and  laughed  and  hic- 
coughed his  way  to  the  very  end  of  him.  In  nearly  his  last 
breath,  he  mumbled  how  he  had  evened  up  with  his  boss. 

They  found  him  dead  in  the  corner  in  Ryan's  saloon. 
The  young  doctor  who  tried  to  arouse  him,  in  a  wise, 
authoritative  manner,  which  would  show  the  magic  of  his 
genius,  announced  to  the  bystanders,  after  his  very  evi- 
dent failure,  that  the  poor  man  had  died  from  a  suffoca- 
tion brought  on  indirectly  by  heart  collapse.  Evidently 
having  learned  from  some  previous  case  that  a  doctor 
must  not  commit  himself  too  freely,  he  suggested  under 
his  voice  that  perhaps  the  death  had  been  induced  by  a 
little  too  much  liquor.  That  the  light  of  Neil's  feeble 
mind  had  simply  flickered  out,  he  did  not  understand. 

Then  they  put  the  corpse  into  a  cheap  black  coffin  and 
a  rickety  hearse  and  six  carriages  took  the  body  to  the 
cemetery,  followed  by  a  few  straggling  members  of  a  fra- 
ternal society.  Some  one  had  bought  a  wreath  of  laurels 
— it  was  said  the  bartender  at  Ryan's  had  made  the  pur- 
chase, and  it  lay  dejectedly  on  the  coffin  as  it  was  carried 
from  the  church,  like  a  crenated  snake  coiled  on  the  bier 
of  its  master. 


THE    TAKER  227 

And  even  as  Marcy  stood  at  the  open  grave,  by  the 
side  of  her  aunt,  the  while  the  black  casket  was  being  low- 
ered into  the  yawning  hole,  her  thoughts  were  of  Vernon, 
and  a  feeling  of  protection  and  assurance  of  her  future 
unchanged  by  this  sudden  bereavement. 

When  her  aunt  came  and  stood  by  her  side  as  she 
looked  down  into  the  grave,  Marcy  felt  no  guilt  in  the 
thought  that  the  woman  misunderstood  her  silence ;  as  the 
band  of  the  fraternal  organisation  played  a  low,  meas- 
ured melody,  and  her  aunt,  with  shining  eyes,  looked  up  at 
her  and  called  out  once  or  twice,  "John!  John!"  she  felt 
as  if  her  lack  of  communion  with  the  grieving  woman  de- 
served no  censure.  All  of  her  allegiance  must  be  given  to 
the  man  walking  about  his  room  in  a  hospital  in  New 
York  City. 

In  the  walk  from  the  cemetery,  Marcy's  thoughts  in- 
variably reverted  back  to  Vernon  and  what  might  happen 
to  her,  had  she  not  refuge  in  his  love. 

.  .  .  Vernon  came  back  on  the  following  Monday  and 
they  had  another  talk,  rather  casual,  followed  by  one  the 
next  day,  which  ended  in  her  gradual  understanding  of 
things  in  Vernon's  way. 

Of  course  he  could  not  marry  her.  He  was  back  home 
now,  and  he  told  her  his  wife,  Mabel,  seemed  more  in  Iove4 
with  him  than  ever,  and  more  desirous  of  making  him 
happy.  She  had  not  even  reproached  him  for  his  utter 
neglect  of  her  when  he  left  Hastings  to  go  to  the  sana- 
torium. 

But  Marcy  could  have  a  wonderful  motor  car  and  live 
in  New  York,  and  have  attractive  clothes,  and  have  people 
notice  her  and  envy  her.  Also,  she  could  go  to  the  theatres 
and  learn  about  the  big  things  of  life. 

Marcy  thought  much  about  these  new  possibilities.    It 


228  THE    TAKER 

seemed  now  that  the  greatest  crime  to  herself  was  to  keep 
on  being  just  Marcy  Moore. 

What  gave  her  the  most  pleasure  was  the  thought  that 
she  might  wait  a  lifetime,  and  work  from  morning  to  night, 
and  not  gain  as  much  as  she  could  now  by  simply  saying 
one  word  to  the  man  she  loved.  "Just  think  of  it,"  she 
would  repeat  to  herself,  "All  I  have  to  say  is  'yes*  .  .  . 
'yes.'" 

The  night  after  her  second  talk  with  Vernon  she  could 
not  help  dancing  crazily  about  her  bedroom,  parading 
gaily  in  front  of  a  mirror,  in  the  manner  she  would  as- 
sume when  she  had  on  all  the  fine  clothes. 

For  the  first  time,  she  began  thinking  of  Vernon  in  a 
personal  way,  thinking  of  how  good-looking  he  was,  how 
wonderful  it  would  be  to  stroke  his  soft  hair  and  know 
that  she  alone  had  this  privilege. 

It  was  the  next  night  that  she  said  to  her  aunt : 

"Auntie,  I've  got  a  better  job.  Mr.  Vernon  has  opened 
an  office  in  New  York,  where  he  will  have  to  spend  a  lot 
of  his  time.  He  wants  me  to  be  there." 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying?"  came  from  the 
aunt's  thin  white  lips. 

Marcy  looked  at  the  haggard,  toil-driven  face  of  the 
woman.  She  felt  more  than  ever  the  conviction  that  hers 
was  the  right  course  to  pursue.  But  it  took  some  bravery 
for  her  to  say:  "Well,  I've  thought  about  it  for  a  long 
time.  I  am  tired  of  living  here,  anyway.  There's  nobody 
here  that  I  would  want  to  marry  again.  So  it  won't  make 
much  difference  if  I  go  amongst  strangers." 

The  woman  looked  at  her  and  said  queerly:  "Marcy, 
Marcy,  this  is  terrible!" 

For  a  few  days,  her  aunt's  attitude  filled  Marcy  with 
indecision,  and  she  spent  many  agonising  hours  telling 


THE    TAKER  229 

herself  that  as  long  as  she  lived,  she  must  stay  by  this 
poor  woman  who  seemed  to  love  her  so. 

And  then,  as  she  sat  thinking  in  this  manner,  a  motor 
car  would  rumble  past  the  house,  and  her  thoughts  would 
be  scattered  like  a  fine  powder  in  the  wind.  She  could 
have  a  motor  car,  even  have  sit  beside  her  the  man  she 
loved. 

It  was  a  sort  of  anaesthesia  of  love  that  hung  over  her, 
the  influence  of  which  took  away  all  control  of  her 
thoughts. 

Sitting  and  thinking,  she  would  say  to  herself,  in  the 
more  calculating  moments,  "Yes ;  that's  got  to  be  my  life 
— I  love  him  and  he  loves  me.  What  else  counts  ?" 

Through  the  days,  the  decision  that  she  must  always 
stay  with  her  aunt  and  take  care  of  the  grey-haired,  sad 
woman,  became  less  and  less  a  force  to  be  overcome. 

Until  one  evening  when  there  came  a  note  from  Vernon. 
He  slipped  it  to  her  quite  casually,  under  a  pile  of  letters. 

"I  wonder,  little  darling,  if  ever  you  went  through  the 
pangs  of  loneliness  that  are  assailing  me.  Oh,  if  you  could 
know  how  I  want  you.  I  am  growing  utterly  miserable  and 
utterly  reckless.  I  am  getting  so  I  don't  care  what  happens. 
I  haven't  seen  my  wife  to  talk  to  her  for  days.  Last  night  I 
went  to  my  room  and  felt  that  I  had  no  right  there  any  longer. 
You  see  what  you  have  done  to  me.  I  could  hardly  turn  on 
the  switch-button — just  wanted  the  darkness  so  I  could  think 
about  my  little  girl, — think  what  my  life  has  come  to.  You 
have  made  this  old  man  want  to  be  young  again — just  for  a 
little.  I  stood  in  front  of  it  ten  minutes  thinking.  My  little 
sweetheart,  I  don't  dare  write  what  I  feel.  You  know  how 
I  think  about  you.  You  had  better  say  'yes'  to  the  matter 
we  talked  over  the  other  day  and  we  will  attend  to  it  imme- 
diately." 


THE    TAKER 

It  was  unsigned,  as  usual,  but  at  the  bottom  was  the 
familiar  "Tear  this  up  as  soon  as  you  read  it." 

Marcy  read  it  through  many,  many  times,  and  then 
with  only  one  thought  in  her  head,  impelled  by  a  force 
that  she  did  not  try  to  stop  or  question,  she  put  on  her  hat 
and  coat  and  went  out  into  the  night. 

She  fairly  ran  to  a  telephone  booth  in  a  drugstore  a 
few  blocks  down  the  street.  When  she  heard  Vernon's 
voice  she  could  hardly  talk: 

"I'll  come — yes — yes.  I'll  see  you  to-morrow.  Take 
good  care  of  yourself,"  she  cried  at  the  black  mouthpiece. 

Then  she  went  back  to  the  house  and  into  her  aunt's 
room  and  said,  in  a  very  tired  and  sleepy  manner,  as  if  it 
were  of  little  concern : 

"Auntie,  I'm  planning  to  go  into  the  city  in  a  few  days 
— if  you  want  somebody  to  have  my  room." 

.  .  .  The  next  morning  Vernon  told  Mabel  in  a  few 
words  that  he  had  opened  a  New  York  office  of  his  own 
and  would  have  to  spend  a  good  deal  of  time  there.  "I'll 
try  to  get  here  as  often  as  I  can,"  he  said ;  "but  if  I  don't 
come  for  a  week  or  so,  don't  you  worry.  You  can  have  all 
the  money  you  want  to  run  the  place.  I'll  have  to  come 
out  to  the  factory  here  a  good  deal  of  the  time,  anyway, 
and  I  can  run  over  and  say  'Hello.'  But  if  you  don't  see 
me,  don't  worry." 

Mabel  did  not  answer  him  but  just  stared  at  him  in  a 
manner  that  puzzled  him  all  the  way  to  his  office.  She 
showed  a  strange  lack  of  excitement,  of  interest  even,  in 
what  he  said.  It  was  almost  as  if  she  had  not  heard  him. 

But  peace  filled  him  the  whole  day.  At  last  he  was 
managing  his  life  so  that  some  real  happiness  could  come 
from  it.  Somehow,  he  was  free  for  the  first  time,  and  he 
would  make  Marcy  beautiful  and  she  would  make  him 


THE    TAKER  231 

young  again.  Yes,  he  was  truly  happy — happier  than  he 
had  ever  been  in  his  life.  He  was  in  love 

How  strange  were  the  workings  of  destiny,  he  thought 
over  and  over.  All  day  his  fancies  ran  on  in  this  manner 
like  some  smoothly  flowing  river.  And  when  he  rode  home 
from  the  factory  there  settled  in  his  being  a  content  and 
elation  greater  than  he  had  ever  known.  He  saw  that  if 
it  all  worked  out  well  he  could  actually  afford  an  hour  or 
two  of  hypocrisy  with  Mabel.  "It  would  make  the  poor 
old  girl  feel  better — and  won't  hurt  me,"  he  told  himself. 

He  stole  into  the  silent  house,  without  being  discovered, 
like  some  guilty  school  boy,  who  had  committed  an  indis- 
cretion. He  resolved  to  be  sweeter  to  Mabel,  perhaps 
Jiave  dinner  with  her. 

As  he  went  up  the  softly  carpeted  stairway  to  break 
the  news  to  her,  he  visualised  just  how  she  would  listen  to 
his  words,  then  look  up  into  his  face  and  say  tearfully, 
yearningly:  "I  knew  you  would  see  things  sensibly  and 
come  back  to  me,  Leonard." 

.  .  .  Mabel  lay  on  the  floor  by  her  bed. 

A  sharp,  sickening  odour  filled  the  room. 

Her  thin  face  was  pulled  out  of  shape  and  smeared  and 
bloated  about  the  cheeks.  Her  lips  were  charred  white 
and  swollen  wide  apart.  Her  body  was  twisted  and  bent. 

On  the  floor  beside  her  lay  a  bottle  with  a  red  label  on  it 
marked  "POISON." 

Leonard  picked  it  up  and  threw  it  out  of  the  window. 

Then  he  sat  down  in  a  chair  and  mopped  the  cold 
sweat  that  bathed  his  forehead. 

For  the  first  time  he  noticed  that  she  had  on  the  only 
attractive  gown  she  possessed — a  rich  grey  satin,  trimmed 
with  lace. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

MABEL'S  death,  the  result  of  mistaking  a  medicine — 
as  the  Hastings'  papers  had  it  from  the  Coroner — 
put  a  stop  to  Leonard's  plans  for  more  than  a  month. 

Then  he  became  determined  again,  began  going  in  to 
New  York  every  day  and  in  two  weeks  had  furnished  for 
Marcy  a  small  apartment  with  a  maid  and  a  telephone, 
on  a  quiet  street  that  led  directly  into  Riverside  Drive. 

The  first  time  that  he  must  visit  her  came  soon.  At 
noon  he  had  Marcy  come  in  on  the  train  and  his  chauffeur 
met  her  and  drove  her  to  the  place. 

And  her  vigil  started  not  over  an  hour  later.  Caressed 
by  the  warm  glow  of  the  shaded  lights  and  the  soft 
strangeness  of  a  silk  gown,  quite  the  first  piece  of  cloth- 
ing she  had  ever  owned  made  of  silk,  Marcy  sat  waiting 
for  him  like  a  dressed-up  beautiful  doll. 

As  she  sat  looking  out  of  the  broad  front  window  on  to 
the  innumerable  cars  that  flashed  by,  which  shot  past  like 
a  procession  of  giant  fireflies,  she  thought  of  a  mocking 
contrast;  her  mother,  whom  she  barely  remembered,  her 
drunken  father,  Lester,  her  aunt,  herself  even  in  the  fifth 
grade  of  the  school,  and  then  again,  as  she  was  that  day 
she  walked  into  Vernon's  office. 

She  went  on  thinking  in  this  strain  till  the  bell  rang, 
and  she  knew  it  was  Vernon.  Then  she  flew  to  meet  him, 
happy,  embarrassed,  bashful,  pulsating  all  over. 

With  her  arms  around  him  she  brought  him  into  the 
little  sitting-room,  with  its  grey  carpet  and  orange  silk 

232 


THE    TAKER  233 

hangings,  looked  at  him  with  her  eyes  wide  for  a  long  time, 
then  gave  a  little  exultant  scream  and  huddled  in  to  him 
and  kissed  him  many  times,  on  his  lips,  his  chin,  his  fore- 
head, his  nose,  his  eyes. 

Vernon  looked  happy  and  well,  even  gay  in  a  new 
brown  suit.  But  he,  too,  was  excited  and  said,  as  they  sat 
down  together  on  the  silk-cushioned  divan,  "Well,  Marcy ! 
So— at  last !  at  last !" 

For  a  time,  it  seemed  nearly  beyond  endurance  to 
Marcy,  he  sat  looking  at  her,  studying  her  and  ruminat- 
ing over  her.  At  last  he  gave  a  long  happy  sigh  and, 
pointing  to  the  talking  machine  that  stood  in  a  corner, 
said: 

"Marcy — play  something  for  me." 

Happy  to  do  whatever  he  bid,  she  jumped  up  and  took 
out  the  first  record  her  hands  touched,  a  gay  dance  that 
the  Russian  ballet  had  brought  over  to  the  Metropolitan, 
and  placed  it  on  the  green-cushioned  disk  of  the  machine. 

"Do  you  know  what  that  is,  Marcy?"  he  asked,  as  the 
brilliant  notes,  like  clear  crystals,  floated  into  the  room. 

"It's  lovely,  isn't  it?"  she  answered. 

He  caught  its  penetrating  rhythm,  was  even  lost  in  it 
for  a  moment.  Then  he  looked  at  Marcy  again. 

"It's  the  Scheherazade." 

His  eyes  rested  on  Marcy  as  he  spoke,  while  she  stood 
waiting  so  patiently  by  the  side  of  the  music  box. 

At  last  it  ended.  The  dying  notes  were  lost  in  a  sea  of 
human  emotion.  As  he  watched  her,  Marcy  turned,  obedi- 
ent to  his  glance,  and  came  to  him,  while  her  supple  body, 
down  to  her  very  silk-clad  feet,  was  a  picture  of  inex- 
haustible loveliness. 

Leonard  held  out  his  arms  to  her,  unmindful  of  the 
scraping  of  the  disappointed  needle,  and  when  she  reached 


234  THE    TAKER 

him,  let  his  fingers  gently  caress  the  warm  softness  of  her 
neck  and  throat. 

"Marcy,"  he  breathed,  looking  deep  into  her  eyes. 

He  could  almost  feel  her  poor  thralled  flesh  weaken  and 
beg  to  dedicate  itself  .  .  . 

That  night,  they  visited  a  great  Broadway  restaurant 
and  after  dinner  he  whispered  to  her : 

"Marcy,  I  never  really  knew  how  wonderful  you  are. 
Look  at  the  way  everybody  watches  you !" 

Her  response  was  to  look  into  his  face  and  murmur, 
lovingly, 

"Oh,  I  only  hope  you  will  always  think  so." 

"I  always  shall,"  he  answered. 

Then  the  music  of  the  orchestra  filled  the  air  of  the 
restaurant,  and  its  wistful,  appealing  tune  caught  at  her 
heart,  whose  very  tendrils  responded  and  in  turn  sent  out 
to  the  man  in  front  of  her  a  message  of  complete  love  and 
endearment. 

"Oh,  isn't  that  wonderful  music!"  she  cried,  looking 
questioningly  at  him.  "What  is  it?"  Her  eyes  sought 
him  inquisitively  and  he  could  hardly  control  the  impulse 
he  had  of  getting  up  and  kissing  her  velvety  lips.  How- 
ever, he  thought  a  moment,  seriously,  at  last  saying: 

"Something — McCormack  sings,  I  think.  It  certainly 
makes  one  happy,  doesn't  it?" 

Exultation,  replete  with  the  golden  prophecy  he  had 
made  for  himself,  filled  him. 

Marcy  answered  quickly.  "I  should  say  it  does."  Her 
enthusiasm  matched  up  with  his. 

Then,  as  if  to  offer  a  bounty  to  his  goodness,  Marcy 
took  a  searching  glance  around  and  bent  over  the  table. 


THE    TAKER  235 

Reaching  for  his  hand,  she  took  hold  of  it  and  kissed  it, 
almost  reverently. 

Hers  was  satisfaction  enough  when  she  heard  him  mur- 
mur lovingly,  "My  little  sweetheart !" 

Then  he  became  even  more  fervent.  "Marcy,  darling, 
I'm  a  happy  man  to-night." 

He  looked  deeply  into  her  eyes.  "Marcy,  you  do  love 
me  as  I  love  you,  don't  you?" 

Longingly  and  lovingly,  she  glanced  back  at  him.  Her 
head  was  bent  low  while  with  one  movement  she  stretched 
her  hands  across  the  table  to  him. 

"I  love  you — just  terribly,"  she  breathed. 

Leonard  looked  steadily  at  her.  Never  before  had  she 
seemed  so  exquisite.  And  it  was  no  chimera.  The  beau- 
tiful, soft  arms  would  soon  be  round  his  neck,  the  deli- 
cately curved  lips,  close  to  his  own.  He  could  not  help 
thinking  how  lucky  he  was.  Over  and  over  in  his  mind, 
ran  the  thought : 

"How  wonderful  I'll  make  her!    How  I'll  be  envied!" 

Then  he  called  the  waiter.  "Waiter,  waiter — another 
bottle — the  same,"  while  Marcy,  noticing  how  he  hated  to 
take  even  a  moment  from  her,  felt  like  putting  her  arms 
around  him  and  saying:  "You're  my  boy,  aren't  you,  Mr. 
Vernon  ?" 

Strangely  at  that  moment,  he  leaned  over  and  took  hold 
of  her  hands. 

"I  want  you  to  call  me  by  my  first  name,  Marcy,"  he 
said.  "I  won't  feel  so  old,  that  way." 

She  smiled  into  his  eyes. 

"I'll— I'll  be  glad  to,  Mr. "  she  hesitated,  "what  is 

it?"  Somehow,  at  the  moment,  his  first  name  had  slipped 
from  her  entirely.  Vernon  showed  his  surprise. 

"You  don't  know?" 


236  THE    TAKER 

"No,  honestly  not." 

"I  thought — you'd  know  it — from  around  the  factory." 

She  did  remember  now.  But  it  was  less  difficult  to  con- 
fess she  had  forgotten.  Then,  too,  it  seemed  not  a  bad 
idea  to  show  him  that  she  had  never  speculated  or  even 
dreamed  she  would  ever  be  with  him  in  this  manner  and 
able  to  call  him  by  his  first  name.  So  she  said : 

"Why,  it  seems  to  have  slipped  from  me." 

"Well,  call  me — Leonard — or  Lennie.  That's  what 

"  suddenly  he  remembered  how  Jennie  had  always 

called  him  "Lennie."  He  could  nearly  see  her  now,  stand- 
ing in  the  doorway,  as  he  came  up  the  walk.  "You'd  best 
make  it  Leonard,  I  think,"  he  exclaimed.  "I  guess  Lennie 
— is  too  boyish  for  me." 

"I  want  it  to  be  Lennie,"  Marcy  said,  lovingly.  Halt- 
ingly she  added,  "I  want  you  to  be — my  boy.  Anyway, 
you're  just  a  young  man — to  me!" 

Now  he  raised  his  glass  to  a  level  with  their  eyes. 

"Let's  drink  to  our  future — happiness,  sweetheart,  and 
to  the  days  and  days,"  he  caught  himself  as  she  pouted, 
"and  months  and  years  that  you  are  going  to  love  me." 

Marcy  took  a  deep  swallow  before  she  exclaimed, 
softly : 

"And  you'll  love  me  too,  won't  you?" 

"You  bet  I  will." 

For  a  time  they  sat  gazing  lovingly  at  each  other.  Over 
Marcy  there  came  a  feeling  of  soft  warm  happiness,  and 
as  she  turned  and  saw  the  people  at  other  tables,  all  their 
eyes  seemed  to  be  directed  at  her,  in  a  curious,  admiring 
way. 

Leonard  seemed  better  looking  than  ever  too,  with  his 
black  tie  and  solitary  pearl  stud  in  the  middle  of  his  soft 


THE    TAKER  237 

white  shirt.  She  wondered  if  any  one  else  had  ever  been  so 
happy  as  she  was. 

"Of  what  are  you  thinking,  darling?"  Vernon  asked 
suddenly. 

She  could  see  his  piercing  eyes.  But  somehow  she  felt 
she  must  look  down,  as  if  to  hold  her  great  joy  a  secret. 

"Oh,  nothing — just  you  and  me." 

He  laughed.     "That's  a  great  deal,  dear." 

"Oh,  you  know — what  I  mean." 

He  reached  his  hand  across  the  table  and  clasped  her 
small  fingers  tightly. 

"Dear  little  sweetheart,"  he  murmured. 

At  a  few  minutes  past  nine,  Vernon  paid  the  check  and 
they  left  the  restaurant.  The  air  was  sweet  and  cool  out- 
side, and  Vernon,  happy  in  the  thought  that  for  quite  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  he  need  not  impetuously  grasp  what 
was  in  his  hand  for  fear  of  losing  it,  suggested  they  go  to 
some  place  of  amusement  before  taking  a  taxi  home. 

"It's  early  yet,"  he  told  Marcy. 

But  she  had  not  the  gift  of  prescience  to  know  what  was 
going  on  in  his  mind,  the  teasing  caress  he  was  giving  his 
anticipations. 

Walking  down  Broadway,  which  looked  more  like  some 
war-time  upheaval  with  its  subway-demolition,  they  soon 
came  to  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House.  Here  Vernon 
had  a  sudden  idea  and  was  at  the  box  office  before  Marcy 
could  restrain  him. 

"You  ought  not  spend  your  money  like  this,  Mr. — 
Leonard,"  she  said  bashfully,  as  she  caught  up  with  him 
and  grasped  his  arm  tightly.  But  it  was  too  late  and  he 
had  two  yellow  tickets  in  his  hand.  Indeed,  she  had  a 
vague  feeling  of  hurt  that  he  should  want  to  go  to  a 


238  THE    TAKER 

theatre,  when  they  might  be  out  at  the  little  apartment, 
happy  and  alone. 

Her  feelings  were  changed  somewhat  only  after  they 
had  taken  their  seats  in  the  rear  of  the  orchestra. 

Then,  a  caressing  cloud  of  happiness  enveloped  Marcy. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  inside  a  great  theatre 
and  she  became  lost  in  a  burst  of  dreamy  reflection  that 
she  could  not  dispel.  It  was  too  unreal  to  believe.  She 
actually  pinched  herself  and  then  Vernon,  to  see  if  it  were 
all  true.  And  when  Leonard  jumped  a  little,  startled,  and 
questioned  what  was  the  matter,  she  said  smiling: 

"Oh,  nothing — Leonard.  I  was — just  dreaming,  I 
guess." 

The  opera  was  Wagner's  "Walkyrie"  and  the  stirring, 
crashing,  and  then  pliant  stroking  of  the  orchestra  filled 
Marcy  with  a  queer  restlessness  entirely  new  to  her. 

When  Wotan  had  put  his  daughter  Brunhilde  to  sleep 
upon  the  painted  canvas  rock  as  a  punishment  for  her  re- 
bellion in  protecting  Siegmund  and  saving  Sieglinde,  a 
prayer  came  to  her  mind  that  some  one  else  would  come 
from  behind  the  scenes  and  upon  the  stage  and  put  an  end 
to  the  fiery-bearded  singer. 

She  had  no  idea  of  the  story,  but  it  could  be  seen  easily, 
how  mean  he  was  to  the  wailing,  beautiful  woman  who  had 
sunk  onto  the  rock.  Once  she  looked  at  Vernon  to  see  if 
he,  too,  were  stirred.  But  he  only  whispered  back  in  a 
way  that  surprised  her: 

"It's  too  bad  it's  Wagner.  You'd  like  music  that's  got 
some  sweetness,  better.  Some  day  we'll  hear  something 
from  Puccini." 

She  felt  like  saying  that  this  was  wonderful  enough ;  in 
fact,  she  was  on  the  point  of  whispering  back,  when  she 
saw  that  her  feelings  about  it  must  only  be  the  outcome  of 


THE    TAKER  239 

ignorance.  Somehow  this  music  made  her  feel  different 
than  she  had  ever  felt  before. 

Then  Wotan  called  upon  Loki,  the  God  of  Fire,  and  as 
he  struck  the  rock  with  his  long  spear,  the  flame  shot  up 
on  all  sides,  completely  surrounding  the  sleeping  figure. 

Marcy,  now,  more  than  ever,  was  overwhelmed  by  the 
music  from  the  orchestra.  It  was  like  some  beautiful 
thunder,  she  thought.  Becoming  overpowered  by  the  ris- 
ing swell  and  sighing  of  the  violins,  the  heart-rending  la- 
mentation, she  held  tightly  to  Leonard,  and  he  squeezed 
her  hand  in  return. 

His  only  disappointment  was  that  the  lights  were  so 
low,  he  could  hardly  define  the  outlines  of  her  beautiful 
face. 

Great  changes  came  over  Marcy  after  that  evening, 
which  pleased  Vernon  immensely.  She  seemed  to  grow 
taller,  to  respond  to  soft  clothes  and  better  living  so 
quickly  that  in  a  few  months  it  was  hard  to  believe  that 
she  had  not  been  born  in  this  luxury  of  love  and  adorn- 
ment. 

Leonard  did  not  see  her  every  day,  but  if  a  day  passed 
that  he  did  not  visit  her,  the  engulfing  sadness  held  her  so 
numb  that  even  his  absence  did  not  affect  her.  She  was 
alive  only  when  with  him;  dead  and  insensate  to  all  im- 
pressions in  his  absence.  When  the  telephone  would  ring 
and  she  would  hear  his  low,  musical  voice  saying:  "I'm 
sorry  about  yesterday,  I'll  be  over  in  an  hour,  dear,"  she 
would  fly  about  the  rooms  again  like  a  young  bird  come  to 
life,  thirsting  for  the  first  sight  of  him. 

At  the  luxurious  restaurants  on  Broadway  and  the 
Avenue,  where  they  always  had  their  evening  meals,  she 
grew  to  know  the  waiters  by  their  first  names,  and  the 


240  THE    TAKER 

favourite  dishes  of  the  different  places.  When  she  saw 
the  diners  whisper  to  each  other  as  she  came  in,  she  knew 
they  were  talking  about  her  and  the  rich  man  who  was  her 
— friend.  How  she  budded  and  bloomed  under  it.  How 
proud  she  was  of  what  she  felt  had  come  only  out  of  her 
understanding  of  life. 

The  only  thing  that  worried  her  at  all  was  her  aunt's 
attitude  toward  her.  Although  many  presents  were  sent 
to  the  woman  there  never  came  back  a  mention  of  them — 
or  a  word  of  thanks. 

Which  made  little  difference  since  mostly  they  were  sent 
as  a  sort  of  an  outlet  for  her  joy,  or  better,  a  silent  offer- 
ing on  the  sacrificial  altar  of  her  conscience. 

With  this  possible  exception,  Marcy  was  very  happy 
indeed.  Blithely  going  along  the  path  that  Vernon  paved 
for  her  feet,  she  never  stopped  to  wonder  if  perchance 
there  might  be  some  thorny  bush  along  the  pathway. 

Their  love  grew  out  of  each  other's  love.  There  was 
and  never  could  be  any  other  consideration.  It  would  al- 
ways be  this  way. 

It  was  love  begotten  by  love.  ... 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

LEONARD  could  hardly  understand  the  situation.  He 
who  had  thought  romance  lost  to  him,  was  now  over- 
whelmed by  the  tenderest  affection  and  passion — brought 
to  him,  coupled  with  beauty  and  child-like  understanding. 
Their  feelings  were  like  antennae  that  reached  out  to 
touch  each  other  whenever  they  were  near,  like  the  feelers 
of  ants. 

And  how  Marcy  loved  to  do  as  he  bid.  He  opened 
charge  accounts  for  her  at  the  various  shops  and  she 
would  appear  before  him  time  and  again  with  some  new 
frock  that  always  required  an  evening  spent  in  parade, 
first  at  home  and  then  at  the  Ritz  or  the  Plaza. 

From  a  little  woman,  at  a  shop  on  Forty-fourth  Street, 
she  learned  that  her  figure  was  heightened  by  wearing  a 
tight,  broad  band  over  her  breast.  And  this  she  incor- 
porated in  every  gown  she  ordered.  It  really  did  give 
height  to  her  trim  figure,  and  changed  her  in  other  ways. 
Somehow  she  responded  with  lightning-like  rapidity  to 
the  illusion  wrought  by  the  gown's  proportions,  walking 
more  stately,  never  tripping  along,  just  from  sheer  youth- 
ful enthusiasm,  as  she  formerly  had  done. 

And  when  she  appeared  before  Leonard,  so  elegant,  her 
cheeks  glowing  with  natural  health,  her  delicately  curved 
lines  faintly  suggested  through  the  thin  fabric,  taller, 
more  graceful  than  ever  he  had  believed  possible,  he  could 
hardly  restrain  himself  from  rushing  off  to  some  Justice 
of  the  Peace  or  minister  and  obtaining  a  license  for  mar- 
riage. 

241 


242  THE    TAKER 

Strangely  he  took  more  of  an  interest  in  his  business, 
too.  It  required  money  to  shower  this  luxury  on  Marcy, 
and  he  would  sit  scheming  with  Whittimore  by  the  hour. 
More  salesmen  were  sent  out  into  Pennsylvania  and  Ver- 
mont, and  through  his  advice  a  campaign  was  started  to 
persuade  public  officials  of  various  small  towns  to  see  that 
a  new  fire-proof  glass,  they  were  specialising  in,  was  in- 
stalled in  the  public  institutions. 

It  was  really  a  period  of  delightful  rehabilitation  for 
him,  netting  him  many  thousands  of  dollars  as  well  as  com- 
plete happiness.  It  had  been  a  long  time  since  he  had  been 
so  exultant  over  just  living,  really  quite  the  first  time  in 
his  whole  life.  And  now  the  most  trivial  things,  abso- 
lutely devoid  of  the  slightest  semblance  of  emotional 
value,  pleased  him  immeasurably. 

One  day,  he  spent  at  least  a  half  hour,  walking  up  and 
down  in  front  of  an  automobile  agency,  which  kept  each 
new  patron  listed  in  small,  gold  letters  on  an  oaken  slab 
in  a  front  window  of  the  show-room. 


"Miss  Marcy  Moore," 

he  read  under  the  name  of  two  or  three  society  leaders. 

He  really  could  not  talk  enough  about  her,  or  think 
enough  about  her,  even  seeking  out  Whittimore,  one  night, 
who  in  turn  took  him  to  a  friend's  apartment,  Edna 
Mason  by  name.  And  at  the  luxurious  duplex  suite  of 
the  good-natured,  little  woman,  a  vivacious  blonde,  Ver- 
non  again  went  over  all  of  Marcy's  good  points,  her 
childish  love  for  him,  her  beauty,  the  way  she  tried  to 
please  him,  how  quickly  she  had  discarded  gay  attire  and 
learned  the  knack  of  dressing  richly,  simply. 

Now  he  entered  a  new  world — where  people  had  attach- 


THE    TAKER  243 

ments  and  where  clothes  and  money  counted  for  some- 
thing. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "I  take  a  little  credit  for  it  myself. 
At  first  she  used  to  dress  too  gaudy.  I  had  to  tone  her 
down." 

"Yes,"  remarked  Miss  Mason,  who  was  sitting  with  her 
elbows  pressed  against  the  arms  of  her  chair  and  the  tips 
of  her  fingers  just  touching  her  chin.  "Little  girls  like 
this  catch  on  quickly.  You'd  think  they  were  born  to  it. 
But  it  is  nice  when  a  man  of  education  and  refinement  like 
yourself,  takes  hold  of  a  poor  little  waif  like  that." 

And  that  was  the  first  sod  upturned  in  the  garden  of  his 
discontent  .  .  .  but  a  veritable  foundation  for  his  oncom- 
ing unhappiness. 

What  could  she  mean  by  saying  such  a  thing?  Marcy 
was  fine — delicate — honest. 

What  could  she  mean? 

But  the  conviction  pierced  its  way  into  his  intelligence 
that  the  little  woman  had  worded  a  thought  that  he  saw 
now  had  always  been  present  in  his  mind.  And  it  was 
plain  how  different  from  Marcy  was  the  person  who  told 
him  this. 

Miss  Mason  had  a  manner  and  air  about  her  as  if  she 
would  be  at  home  with  any  one.  While  Marcy 

At  the  moment  he  could  not  help  making  the  compari- 
son. Marcy — were  she  with  them  at  this  moment — would 
be  over-awed  and  silent. 

Leonard  hurried  away  from  them. 

"I've  really  got  to  go,"  he  said,  as  they  stood  up  and 
begged  him  to  stay.  It  even  pained  him  a  little  to  see 
Miss  Mason  take  hold  of  Whittimore's  arm.  as  together 
they  stood  watching  him  put  on  his  hat  and  coat. 


244  THE    TAKER 

He  found  himself  at  Marcy's  door  without  really  being 
aware  of  how  he  had  arrived  there. 

"Oh,  honey,"  she  cried,  "I've  been  waiting  for  more 
than  an  hour  for  you.  You  mustn't  make  me  wait  like 
this.  It  ain't  nice." 

She  had  not  said  "ain't"  for  months.  Or  at  least  he  had 
not  been  aware  of  it.  And  he  had  spent  long  hours  breaking 
her  of  the  habit.  As  he  stood  looking  at  the  glossy  head 
now  huddled  in  his  arms,  he  reminded  himself  of  all  the 
trying  times,  when  he  had  scolded  her  and  she  had  smoth- 
ered all  argument  by  caressing  him  and  trying  to  soothe 
him  with  rather  endearing  "baby-talk." 

"You  must  not  say  'ain't,'  dear." 

"I  just  love  you,"  she  replied.     "I  do.    I  love  you." 

"But  'ain't'  is  incorrect,  Marcy." 

She  looked  up  into  his  face  with  her  big  eyes,  wide  and 
loving. 

"Dear,  I  love  you.    What  do  words  count  with  us  ?" 

Reaching  up,  she  drew  his  lips  down  to  her  lips  and  held 
him  yearningly. 

And  the  protest  in  his  conscience  was  inhibited — by 
other  calls. 

But  there  came  other  incidents,  spread  out  over  a  pe- 
riod of  about  five  months,  unworded  glances  that  Marcy 
was  totally  unaware  of,  crudities  in  her  gestures,  her  way 
of  holding  a  fork,  the  strange  smallness  of  her  ears — that 
he  seemed  never  to  have  been  conscious  of  before.  And  all 
driving  a  wedge  into  his  understanding. 

Anyway,  he  was  not  bent  on  philanthropically  groping 
his  way  through  life.  It  was  very  beautiful  to  be  so  chari- 
table and  foolish — but  he  had  wasted  enough  time. 

Suddenly  there  seemed  a  sort  of  similarity  between  this 


THE    TAKER  245 

episode  and  the  others  with  Jennie  and  Mabel,  though  at 
the  moment  he  could  not  place  his  finger  on  it. 

One  night  they  went  to  the  theatre.  And  though  Marcy 
was  truly  more  beautiful  than  any  one  Vernon  compared 
her  with  in  the  audience,  yet  she  surely  lacked  that  tired, 
bored  expression  of  good-breeding,  the  expression  that 
shows  how  accustomed  one  is  to  it  all. 

She  was  too  eager.  As  he  sat  at  her  side,  he  noticed 
how  animated  and  happy  she  was. 

Somehow — it  was  difficult  to  define — she  sat  up  too 
high  and  erect  in  the  seat.  And  as  some  people  crowded 
past  them,  she  rose  hurriedly  and  rather  apologised 
for  being  in  the  way.  One  tall  woman  with  a  collar  of 
pearls  around  her  neck  didn't  even  recognise  her  obliga- 
tion. 

It  was  really  a  horrible  moment  for  Leonard.  He  was 
aware  that  many  women  near  them  turned  and  looked  at 
them  through  their  lorgnettes. 

Then  the  curtain  rose  on  a  rather  lurid  melodrama,  a 
play  called  "The  Case  of  Mrs.  Dunne,"  a  piece  which  was 
headed  for  failure  on  account  of  the  obviousness  and  arti- 
ficiality of  a  situation  revolving  around  a  woman  who  mas- 
queraded as  her  own  maid,  while  her  husband  was  away  on 
a  business  trip.  It  was  lurid  indeed.  For  no  apparent 
reason  the  wife  suspected  her  husband  of  infidelity  and 
chose  this  unnecessary  way  of  spying  on  him. 

But  Marcy,  always  waiting  until  some  one  applauded, 
usually  at  the  back  of  the  house,  would  then  begin  clap- 
ping her  hands  gleefully,  more  from  sheer  happiness  than 
from  pleasure  at  what  the  stage  brought  out.  Time  and 
again  she  did  this,  only  to  suddenly  stop  when  her  isola- 
tion became  apparent. 

However,  she  seemed  to  enjoy  it,  bubbling  over  with 


246  THE    TAKER 

laughter  and  then  drooping  with  the  wife  as  she  confessed 
to  her  husband  in  the  last  act — a  scene  which  brought  only 
ridicule  from  the  rest  of  the  audience. 

Vernon  told  her  not  to  be  so  serious  about  it. 

"Hold  yourself  in  a  little,  dear,"  he  whispered,  smil- 
ingly, though  something  was  tightening  at  the  very  ten- 
drils of  his  heart. 

And  then  after  the  theatre  he  accidentally  blocked  the 
way  of  a  young  girl,  who,  with  an  old  woman,  was  rushing 
to  their  motor.  The  girl  had  a  finely  chiselled,  delicate 
face,  whose  every  lineament  showed  its  certain  breeding. 
He  noticed,  too,  that  her  dress  was  cut  high  and  modestly. 
At  that  moment  he  took  a  sidelong  glance  at  Marcy  and 
saw  how  voluptuously  her  rounded  breasts  were  outlined 
beneath  their  filmy  covering. 

And  more  strangely,  at  that  instant,  Marcy  cried  to 
him,  right  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  people : 

"Baby,  don't  you  think  we'd  best  walk  to  the  car?" 

He  could  not  help  looking  around  to  see  who  had  heard, 
seared  by  the  thought  that  had  he  planned  his  life  sensibly, 
he  could  be  married  now  to  some  fine,  cultured  young  girl, 
who  had  position  and  family  back  of  her.  At  this  very 
moment,  they  could  be  entering  their  waiting  limousine 
with  the  eyes  of  all  the  others  upon  them. 

Yet  he  must  walk  to  the  corner,  and  then  go  to  some 
restaurant.  They  must  sit  and  eat  alone — alone — alone 
— good  God — because  they  knew  no  one.  Except  Whitti- 
more  and  Miss  Mason.  And  what  could  Miss  Mason  talk 
to  Marcy  about  ? 

No,  there  would  be  nothing  to  talk  about.  No  more 
than  what  he  had  to  talk  about,  as  they  sat  over  the  res- 
taurant table — nothing — the  show — her  dress — what  they 
would  do  to-morrow  night. 


THE    TAKER  247 

And  so  an  idea  formed  itself  in  Leonard's  inner  con- 
sciousness, an  idea  he  could  not  or  would  not  dislodge. 

After  that  night,  he  was  haunted  by  this  idea  every 
time  he  left  the  little  apartment.  The  idea  was  this :  He 
could  be  having  a  really  beautiful  life  now.  He  could  be 
living  with  an  exquisite  wife  who  had  many  admiring 
friends.  And  they  could  be  having  evenings  at  home, 
where  there  was  clever  talk  and  music.  In  this  way,  he 
would  meet  others  too.  It  would  help  his  business  in  a 
way,  even. 

He  was  suffering  now  simply  because  of  lack  of  fore- 
sight. Again  he  had  mismanaged,  had  not  reached  high 
enough.  Anybody  could  get  what  they  went  after,  if  they 
were  persistent.  The  trouble  was  that  now  that  he  had 
money,  he  did  not  appreciate  himself. 

Then  one  day,  Marcy  questioned  him : 

"Sweetheart,  what's  the  matter?  You  act  so — pre- 
occupied, lately." 

He  noticed  the  deep-circling  hollows  about  her  eyes  as 
she  spoke. 

He  was  tempted  to  tell  her,  yet  held  himself  back,  on 
the  verge  of  saying:  "It's  no  go,  Marcy,  I'm  sorry.  But 
We've  got  to  part.  I'm  doing  myself  an  injustice  by  living 
this  way,  though  you  wouldn't  understand  it,  I'm  afraid." 

He  would  have  said  all  this,  did  he  not  realise  that  it 
was  foolish  to  do  this  until  he  had  found — the  other 
Woman. 

He  would  be  losing  a  lot  of  real  pleasure  without  gain- 
ing anything. 

Some  one  had  said  something  about  not  throwing  out 
idirty  water  until  you  had  got  clean  water. 

But  he  did  act  more  and  more  sullen  and  on  occasions 
was  actually  unkind  to  her,  which  she  took  for  restless- 


248  THE    TAKER 

ness,  and  worry  over  business,  or  just  simple  shifts  in  his 
temper. 

And  she  treated  him  even  better,  more  sweetly,  amiably 
— more  baby-like. 

"My  own,  poor  little  boy,"  she  would  murmur, — "Just 
come  to  Muzzer." 

And  Leonard,  indulging  now  in  a  constant  survey  of  the 
situation,  became  shamed  by  remorse  at  what  he  had  done. 
It  was  made  more  and  more  poignant  by  the  thought  that 
came  intermittently  but  resolutely,  that  he  was  settled  for 
life  in  just  this  manner.  He  questioned  himself  inces- 
santly about  it,  in  his  bath,  as  he  shaved,  or  dressed  him- 
self. 

It  really  became  a  practice  with  him  to  visualise  him- 
self as  he  would  be  in  a  few  short  years. 

Somehow  he  saw  himself  on  a  mortuary  couch,  an  old 
man,  shrivelled  up  and  spent. 

One  night,  with  eyes  sunken  and  face  pale  from  loss  of 
sleep,  he  talked  for  hours  with  Edna  Mason  and  Whitti- 
more. 

"I  am  really  worried  about  it,"  he  confided  to  them. 
"She  doesn't  seem  to  realise  that  I  must  have  an  evening  to 
myself  now  and  then,  like  to-night,  for  instance.  Then 
she  always  wants  me  by  her,  and  yet  she  doesn't  seem  to 
acquire  the  things  that  will  show  people  she  had  the  right 
sort  of  stuff  in  her.  You  know  what  I  mean?" 

Whittimore  interjected: 

"Well,  what  do  you  care  about  people — Vernon ;  what 
do  people  care  about  your  happiness  ?  Why  do  you  try  to 
fool  yourself,  anyway?" 

"That  isn't  exactly  what  I  mean,  my  friend,"  Leonard 
insisted,  "I  mean — the  little  things  that  only  I  would  no- 
tice. You  know  a  man  is  bound  to  be  conscious  of  them," 


THE    TAKER  249 

his  brows  contracted  and  he  said  quite  to  himself,  "more 
and  more." 

Whittimore  smiled.  "I'm  afraid  you  haven't  got  enough 
confidence  in  your  own  opinion  of  what  is  so  important  to 
you."  Quite  seriously,  he  added,  "I  believe  you  would 
change  your  entire  idea  about  things  if  I  were  to  tell  you 
that  your  little  girl  was  the  most  exquisite  and  innately 
refined  little  person  I  had  ever  come  across."  He  hesi- 
tated, then  said  slowly:  "I  believe  your  tragedy  is  that 
you  are  going  through  life,  waiting  for  other  people  to 
appraise  what  you  have." 

Vernon  looked  up,  startled,  just  as  Whittimore's  com- 
panion exclaimed  with  an  approving  glance : 

"I  think  Mr.  Vernon  is  right.  I  believe  he  realises  he  is 
trying  to  work  with  material  that  isn't  there." 

After  that,  Vernon  was  haunted  and  harrowed  more 
than  ever,  thinking  continually  that  what  Miss  Mason  said 
was  right.  That  this  was  the  secret  back  of  the  whole 
situation.  One  had  to  be  born  to  the  manner  and  once 
they  were — that  way — nothing  could  change  it.  Look  at 
himself.  His  ideals  and  desires  for  finer  things  were  as 
high  as  ever.  And  that  was  just  the  reason  it  was  inevi- 
table that  two  people  like  him  and  Marcy  could  never  work 
it  out.  She  did  not  have  the  foundation  to  build  on. 
It  was  all  only  a  fancy,  a  sheer,  flimsy,  unstable  dream. 
All  because  he  was  so  indecisive,  so  weak.  Even  if  his 
great  precept  was  never  to  hurt  others,  he  must  also  think 
of  not  hurting  himself  too.  Yes,  he  was  just  a  weakling. 
Other  men,  realising  the  impossibility  of  a  structure — 
he  was  building  a  structure,  yes,  giving  his  years  to  it — 
would  dismiss  it  without  thought.  He  was  always  hang- 
ing on,  waiting  for  some  magic  to  work,  that  would  fix 
everything  all  right  as  he  deserved. 


250  THE    TAKER 

...  It  was  during  this  period  that  Edna  Mason  sent  a 
note  to  a  Mrs.  Bellamy,  living  at  Milford,  Conn.,  where 
formerly  she,  too,  had  resided.  The  note  was  in  answer  to 
one  received  by  her. 

"DEAREST  DEHLIA: 

"Your  letter  has  pained  me  more  than  I  can  possibly  tell 
you.  Truly  I  am  grieved  that  Charline  is  so  wayward,  and 
grieved  more  that  you  are  so  worried  and  unhappy  about  her. 
It  is  strange,1  indeed,  how  things  do  happen.  Only  a  night 
before  last,  I  was  speaking  with  a  friend  of  mine,  a  Mr. 
Vernon.  I  told  him  all  about  you,  Dehlia.  He  is  one  of  the 
most  charming  men  one  could  possibly  meet.  And  a  dear 
friend  of  Mr.  Whittimore's,  whom  of  course  I've  told  you 
about  before. 

"Now  this  is  the  idea,  Dehlia,  dear.  I  want  you  to  cut  out 
the  heavy  thinking,  and  get  into  New  York  here  with  me. 
You've  done  enough  mourning  about  Henry.  Heaven  knows, 
he  left  you  little  as  it  is.  I  just  would  love  to  have  you.  And 
I  believe  it  is  the  thing  for  you  and  Charline  to  do  anyway. 
She'd  have  all  kinds  of  chances  here  and  I  miss  my  guess, 
if  you  won't  care  just  a  little  for  Mr.  Vernon.  He's  just  your 
type,  if  I  can  remember  back — sort  of  sad  and  sentimental. 
I  think  he's  around  forty.  For  one  reason  or  another,  he's 
just  ripe  for  somebody  to  pluck  now,  too. 

"So  don't  be  foolish,  Dehlia.  Just  pick  up  and  warn  me 
when  the  train  leaves.  I  know,  if  anybody  does,  what  being 
in  the  rut  in  Milford  means. 

"I'll  look  for  you  in  about  a  week.  If  you  don't  come,  why, 
I'll  come  and  get  you. 

"Lots  of  love, 

"EDNA. 

"P.  S. — Am  serious,  old  friend." 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

SOME  few  days  later,  Whittimore  invited  Leonard  to 
join  him  at  dinner  and  to  bring  along  Marcy,  so  that 
Edna  "might  get  to  know  her  better." 

So  they  met  at  the  Plaza,  in  the  lobby,  at  about  eight 
o'clock.  On  the  way  over,  Leonard  told  Marcy  to  try  and 
not  act  too  interested  in  things,  but  to  be  just  a  little 
bored,  in  fact,  to  watch  Miss  Mason  and  emulate  her. 

But  somehow,  as  they  all  walked  through  the  lobby  into 
the  dining  room,  Leonard  felt  that  he  could  read  the 
thoughts  of  the  diners  that  were  present. 

Marcy  had  on  a  black,  dull  silk  dress,  cut  very  low,  and 
below  the  broad  band  of  black  crepe  de  chine  over  her 
breast,  there  was  a  corseted  effect  down  to  her  hips  which 
gave  her  body  an  enticing  undulation  and  freedom  as  she 
took  each  step.  Whittimore  was  really  full  of  admiration 
for  the  child,  even  whispering  as  they  walked : 

"Lucky  dog,  Vernon." 

But  Edna  did  not  approve  of  Marcy,  somehow,  and  her 
manner,  much  too  kindly  and  affable,  made  it  plain  to 
Leonard  that  she  would  watch  over  Marcy  and  see  each 
mistake  that  the  girl  made. 

She  called  Marcy  "dear,"  right  from  the  start  of  the 
meal.  "If  I  were  you,  dear, — I  should  brush  my  hair  back 
straight  from  the  forehead.  I  believe  it  would  become 
you — make  you  a  little  older  looking,  too,  dear." 

She  looked  at  Vernon  while  Marcy,  sensing  the  injustice 
of  the  woman's  patronage,  felt  that  it  was  being  done  only 
to  get  back  Whittimore's  attention,  for  he  seemed  to  be 

251 


252  THE    TAKER 

staring  at  her  queerly,  no  matter  how  much  she  tried  not 
to  notice  him. 

However,  it  was  only  toward  the  end  of  the  meal  that 
she  realised  that  Leonard  too  was  studying  her,  unkindly, 
in  a  manner  utterly  strange.  And  after  that,  she  could 
not  control  herself,  doing  things  that  she  absolutely  did 
not  want  to  do.  She  was  unable  to  say  the  slightest  word 
to  the  woman,  or  even  to  Vernon  or  Whittimore.  She 
could  only  sit  quietly  and  try  to  hold  herself  from  getting 
up  and  telling  Miss  Mason  what  she  thought  of  her. 

Though  disaster  came  soon  enough.  Led  on  by  the 
soft  light  and  the  music  from  an  adjoining  palm  room, 
Edna  crooned  out  some  chanting  negro  songs,  semi- re- 
ligious and  dirge-like,  but  in  a  soft  voiced  dialect  that 
was  really  interesting  and  clever.  Each  song  was  fol- 
lowed by  admiring  words  from  Vernon,  who,  held  by  the 
woman,  listened  intently.  He  murmured  complimentary 
phrases  while  Marcy  suddenly  realised  that  he  was  not 
paying  the  slightest  attention  to  her. 

It  seemed  as  if  it  were  left  to  Whittimore  to  amuse  her. 
But  to  him  she  could  not  say  more  than  the  slightest  "yes" 
or  "no"  and  once  when  he  asked  her  if  she  didn't  sing,  she 
felt  like  telling  him  that  there  was  a  song  that  she  knew, 
and  then  get  up  and  show  Vernon  that  she  wasn't  suffer- 
ing the  slightest  bit.  But  she  was  stifled,  inarticulate 
from  worry  over  the  man  she  loved  and  could  only  answer, 
"Oh,  no,  I  don't  sing."  She  even  hated  herself  for  the 
moment  for  appearing  so  numb. 

She  sat  there  amidst  all  the  splendour,  not  eating,  si- 
lent, unhappy — only  noticing  how  Vernon's  eyes  rested  on 
Edna  Mason,  or  roamed  about  the  room  to  the  adjoining 
tables. 

Once,  when  Leonard   quite   spontaneously   exclaimed: 


THE    TAKER  253 

"There  are  certainly  a  lot  of  exquisitely  gowned  women 
here,  aren't  there?"  she  could  hardly  control  herself  from 
defiantly  standing  up  in  front  of  him  and  saying,  "Well, 
what's  the  matter  with  me?" 

The  meal  was  finished  near  ten  o'clock  and  Whittimore 
suggested  that  they  run  up  to  Edna's  apartment  at  the 
Pranton. 

So  they  got  up,  and,  after  receiving  their  wraps,  had 
the  car  called.  They  rode  across  town  in  silence,  though 
Edna,  acting  as  if  she  realised  Vernon's  unhappiness, 
talked  more  than  ever,  and  directed  her  words  entirely  at 
Vernon.  And  again,  Marcy  sat  rigid  and  unhappy  in  a 
haze  of  isolated  embarrassment,  conscious  more  than  ever 
of  her  inability  to  cope  with  the  little  woman  on  the  seat 
opposite  her. 

She  heard  such  a  variety  of  topics,  too ;  the  exhibit  at 
some  gallery  or  other,  of  a  new  painter  from  Spain,  the 
bill  at  the  Princess  Theatre,  the  Russian  dancers — then 
shifting  in  kaleidoscopic  fashion  to  a  half  dozen  other  sub- 
jects, all  equally  meaningless  to  her  ears. 

How  Leonard  listened  to  the  woman!  She  noticed  as 
they  went  into  the  Pranton  entrance,  that  he  accidentally 
held  on  to  her  arm  for  a  moment  as  he  helped  her  into  the 
elevator. 

Then  when  they  reached  the  white  and  gold  apartment, 
two  extraordinary  things  happened,  each  having  a  certain 
relation  to  the  other. 

While  Leonard  was  dancing  with  Edna,  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  the  graphophone,  Marcy  heard  the  woman 
whisper: 

"I  did  something  for  you,  the  other  night.  I  wrote  a 
little  note." 

As  she  sat  and  talked  to  Whittimore,  Marcy  could  see 


254  THE    TAKER 

how  Leonard  was  questioning  Miss  Mason.  Perhaps  it 
was  just  as  well  that  she  did  not  hear  clearly  what  the 
little  woman  said  into  his  ear. 

"I  guess  I'll  have  to  save  you  from  yourself.  It's  with 
a  dear  friend  of  mine.  She's  only  thirty-six  and  a  corker. 
You'll  like  her.  She  used  to  be  mighty  pretty  when  I 
knew  her." 

But  she  completed  her  understanding  as  she  watched  the 
expression  on  Leonard's  face,  as  he  asked: 

"Is  she  intelligent,  like  you  ?  And  does  she  know  about 
— the  good  things  of  life?" 

The  other  was  that  Marcy,  unable  to  longer  hold  back 
her  feelings  any  longer,  ran  up  to  Leonard  and  cried: 

"Oh,  Lennie,  please  take  me  away  from  here.  I'm  ter- 
ribly unhappy." 

Leonard  answered  brutally: 

"You'll  stay  here  until  I'm  ready  to  take  you  home, 

unless "  he  worded  the  thought  earnestly  enough, 

"unless  you  want  to  take  the  car  home  yourself  now." 

That  was  the  last  word  she  had  with  him  that  night. 

Although  she  did  sit  and  wait  until  Vernon,  petulant 
that  his  evening  had  been  spoilt,  took  hold  of  her  arm,  and 
quite  dragged  her  out  of  the  place  and  to  the  elevator. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

¥N  silence,  the  next  morning,  Vernon  sat  reading  his 
•*•  newspaper,  while  the  steam  from  the  percolator  on  the 
table  obscured  from  Marcy  all  but  his  eyes. 

Marcy  could  not  control  her  anger.  She  was  even 
ashamed  for  the  sake  of  Nina,  the  coloured  servant,  who 
kept  coming  into  the  room  with  scrutinising  glances  first 
at  Vernon  and  then  at  her. 

But  one  thought  she  no  longer  could  hold  back. 

Suddenly  she  was  conscious  of  the  great  distance  that 
lay  between  their  feelings  for  each  other. 

It  did  not  seem  possible  that  this  smooth-faced  and  calm 
man,  so  quietly  reading  his  paper,  could  be  metamorphosed 
into  the  temper-ridden,  relentless  individual  of  the  night 
before.  She  could  not  help  likening  him  to  some  animal 
who  had  devoured  his  victim  and  was  now  purring  in  con- 
tent. 

Sensing  her  scrutiny  of  him,  Vernon  looked  up  from  his 
paper.  Calmly  enough  he  asked  her  what  was  on  her 
mind. 

"I — I'll  tell  you  some  day,"  she  answered  thought- 
fully. 

With  only  a  glance  at  her  as  if  to  say,  "Well,  that's 
your  affair,"  he  went  back  to  his  paper,  buried  himself 
in  it  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  casually  remarked 
even  as  he  read:  "I  might  have  to  go  out  to  the  factory 
to-day.  One  of  the  foremen  didn't  show  up.  See  if  you 
can  amuse  yourself.  I  ought  to  be  back  to-morrow." 

255 


256  THE    TAKER 

When  he  became  conscious  of  her  continual  strange 
observation  of  him  he  added:  "For  God's  sake,  child, 
don't  sit  there  staring  like  that  at  me.  Come,  what's  the 
matter?" 

With  gaping  eyes  but  shrinking  manner,  Marcy  kept 
gazing  at  him.  At  last  he  put  his  paper  down  entirely: 
"Now,  what  in  the  world  is  the  matter?  You  are  too 
pretty  to  look  so  sad.  And  let's  forget  last  night.  I've 
got  a  lot  to  think  about  these  days." 

He  looked  at  his  white  metalled  watch  and  then  com- 
pared it  with  the  little  French  clock  on  the  mantel  and 
for  a  moment  busied  himself  regulating  a  hand;  then 
gathering  his  paper  and  folding  it  so  that  it  would  fit 
into  his  pocket,  he  rose  from  the  table.  At  last  he  could 
no  longer  tolerate  the  wondering  look  on  Marcy's  face. 

"Well?"  he  said,  hardly  able  to  control  his  temper. 

Slowly  Marcy  began,  "You  know,  Leonard — I  don't 
know  you — you  are  just  a  stranger.  I  don't  know  why  it 
never  came  to  me  before." 

She  kept  up  her  aggravating  scrutiny  of  him  until  he 
went  out  in  the  hall  and  put  on  his  light  grey  overcoat 
and  derby  hat.  When  he  came  back  into  the  room  for  his 
newspaper  he  said,  easily,  "I'll  just  give  you  a  thought  for 
the  day.  If  you  think  I've  grown  cold  all  of  a  sudden, 
why  don't  you  ask  yourself  if  it  isn't  because  you  are 
that  way  to  me?" 

Only  when  he  added:  "I've  got  to  defend  myself  some 
way,"  her  pent-up  feelings  betrayed  themselves. 

"I — I've  learned  something — about  men,"  she  cried, 
without  control — her  voice  more  like  that  of  an  aggrieved 
woman  than  of  a  young  girl — "Men  are  devils." 

Vernon  walked  around  the  table  to  the  back  of  her 
chair  and  put  his  hands  on  her  shoulders. 


THE    TAKER  25T 

"Now,  Marcy,"  he  said,  "I  suppose  I've  spotted  you. 
Of  course  men  are  all  alike.  You  had  just  as  well  know 
that.  It's  only  their  methods  that  are  different.  That 
is  what  makes  the  difference  between,  well,  for  instance 
— between  me  and  somebody  else.  Why  shouldn't  we  look 
things  squarely  in  the  face?  You  know  how  many  times 
I  have  told  you  that  there  are  laws  in  life  that  cover 
everything.  Now,  we  are  up  against  one  of  those  laws. 
That's  what  keeps  the  world  going.  If  everybody  slipped 
into  some  rut  along  the  road  and  stayed  there  a  lifetime — 
well,  nobody  would  ever  get  any  place.  Now,"  he  placed 
his  hands  under  her  chin,  "now  kiss  me,  Marcy.  I've  got 
to  go." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  wide-open,  accusing  eyes, 
and  instead  of  meekly  giving  in  to  him  and  following  his 
slightest  call,  she  spoke  bitterly.  "I  thought  you  were 
so — fine — and  now  I  know  that  you  don't  care  about  me. 
You  are  just  brutal.  Why,"  she  hesitated  over  the 
thought,  "you're  no  different  than  Lester  Moore.  I  want 
to  love  you.  But,  when  I  think  of  how  you  really  are  I 
can  hardly  help — hating  you." 

The  impetuous  words  startled  Vernon.  He  could  never 
control  her,  he  saw,  if  her  love  for  him  was  lost.  As  he 
stood,  and  watched  her  soft  round  chin  tremble  with 
anger  and  her  cheeks  flush  with  temper,  he  thought:  "I 
mustn't  lose  her  yet."  There  even  flashed  into  his  mind 
the  possibility  of  some  one  else,  Whittimore  perhaps,  being 
able  to  have  her  love,  and  hear  her  childish  words  of  af- 
fection. So  he  changed  his  manner  on  the  instant,  letting 
her  see  that  he  was  really  affected  by  her  hard  words,  even 
hurt  by  them.  He  pulled  up  a  chair  and  sat  very  close, 
and  looking  deep  into  her  eyes,  said,  in  a  way  that  showed 
he  was  suffering  more  than  she  must  know : 


258  THE    TAKER 

"Please  idon't  talk  like  that,  Marcy.  You  have  gone 
through  so  much  already,  and  it  hurts  me  to  see  you  just 
the  least  bit  unhappy." 

Instantly  he  saw  that  he  had  not  lost  his  control  over 
her,  that  she  still  loved  him  as  a  master,  though  a  fear 
assailed  him  that  if  he  showed  himself  weak  to  her  he 
would  lose  his  power  over  her  entirely.  He  must  strike  a 
happy  medium,  he  told  himself,  so  that  when  he  did  break 
away  he  could  still  be  protected  by  her  love  for  him.  That 
was  the  thing  he  must  not  lose  sight  of. 

So  he  said,  a  little  more  sternly  now :  <cWhy,  Marcy,  you 
are  a  woman — not  a  little  girl.  And  two  people  can't  go 
on  the  way  we  have,  unless  there  is  some  sort  of  under- 
standing between  them — about  things — life  in  general, 
you  know.  Nobody  can  go  on  indefinitely  without  having 
a  pretty  good  idea  of  what  he  is  doing." 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  began  pacing  the  floor, 
while  Marcy  watched  him,  her  little  nostrils  dilating  in 
rhythmic  companionship  with  the  racking  throbs  in  her 
throat. 

"You  know  we  are  just  puppets,  Marcy.  You — every- 
body. We  do  things — like  you  and  I  have  done — we're 
happy,  then  hesitate — then  plunge — and  yet  all  the  time 
in  the  back  of  our  hearts  there  is  the  idea  that  if  we 
follow  the  crowd  along  the  path  we  take,  we  will  have 
to  meet  the  worries  and  the  same  end,  with  the  rest  of  the 
crowd.  We  haven't  got  any  other  chance." 

She  failed  to  answer  him,  only  sitting  rigid  and  star- 
ing at  him.  Then  in  an  instant  her  manner  changed  to 
one  less  passive.  She  jumped  up  from  her  chair  and 
with  a  wild  lunge  tore  past  him  into  the  next  room,  where 
she  threw  herself  upon  the  cushioned  divan. 

Vernon  was  held  aghast  for  a  moment,  disappointed 


THE    TAKER  259 

that  she  should  not  have  welcomed  his  words  with  some 
such  appeal  as  had  always  been  her  wont.  If  she  defied 
him,  nothing  could  be  accomplished.  He  followed  her 
quickly,  then,  into  the  living  room,  and  apologetically 
tried  to  gather  her  in  his  arms,  saying  repeatedly,  as  he 
tried  to  control  her,  "Now  listen,  Marcy ;  you  must  under- 
stand things  the  way  I  mean  them." 

However  he  tried  to  soften  her  anger  she  would  not 
listen,  only  crying,  "Stay  away  from  me,  I  hate  you." 

Vainly  he  tried  to  quell  her  frenzy. 

"Marcy,  Marcy,  listen,  you  are  so  wonderful  and  beau- 
tiful." 

She  did  seemcat  that  moment  extraordinarily  inviting. 
Her  bosom  heaved  tumultuously  and  her  hair  had  fallen 
down  onto  its  curves,  which  gave  her  a  Madonna-like  ap- 
pearance. 

Impetuously,  he  grabbed  her,  fought  down  her  arms  and 
kissed  her  on  the  cheeks  and  mouth.  "Kiss  me  back,"  he 
demanded,  breathless  from  his  exertions. 

But  Marcy  did  not  heed  him,  and  Vernon  saw  that  his 
old  strategies,  for  some  unaccountable  reason,  had  lost 
their  influence  over  her.  As  he  watched  her  delicious 
figure,  crumpled  in  the  cushions,  he  wondered  how  he  could 
reason  her  out  of  her  strange  attitude  toward  him.  He 
would  not  believe  that  it  was  all  over  now.  It  was  really 
difficult  to  know  what  to  do  at  the  moment. 

And  yet,  of  her  own  volition,  she  had  never  so  gallantly 
defied  him.  Wondering  if  it  were  possible  that  some  one 
had  been  talking  to  her  and  advising  her,  he  asked : 

"Have  you  seen  anybody  and  talked  to  them  about — 
us?  Is  there  some  other  man?" 

And  then  the  instinctive  cry  of  allegiance  that  the  dog 
has  for  its  master,  the  searching  peal  for  its  mother  of 


260  THE    TAKER 

the  lambless  ewe  gone  desolately  astray,  found  its  way  to 
the  girl's  mind — and  Vernon  knew  that  he  had  not  lost 
her  yet.  And  that  he  had  been  reasoning  above  her 
emotional  order.  She  said,  in  answer  to  his  question: 
"Oh,  Leonard,  how  can  you  think  of  such  a  thing,  when 
you  know  you  are  the  only  man  in  the  world  that  I  love?" 
So  the  process  went  on. 

He  saw  that  he  still  controlled  her,  that  his  mistake  had 
been  to  think  her  a  woman  of  the  world,  of  mutable  in- 
clinations, when  she  was  only  the  simple  little  girl  that 
loved  him,  and  that  she  could  never  be  otherwise. 

He  told  himself  that  the  Maker  creates  all  manner  of 
men  or  women,  but  that  his  mistake  had  been  to  think  that 
natures  can  change.  In  the  instant  he  saw  that  Marcy 
would  always  love  him,  that  she  was  one  of  Nature's  chil- 
dren that  love  once  and  eternally. 

He  felt  a  little  sorry  when  the  full  conviction  of  this 
knowledge  smote  him.  For  he  saw  that  she  would  never 
defend  herself,  that  she  would  never  offer  battle,  but  go 
to  the  end  of  her  days  a  love-child  giving  always  and 
only  happy  when  this  side  of  her  nature  had  expression. 

And  so  immediately  he  became  gentle  with  her,  and 
caressing  and  kind,  smoothing  back  her  soft  hair,  ex- 
plaining to  her  that  his  temper  was  not  an  easy  thing  to 
control,  that  love  distorted  all  things.  Kneeling  down  be- 
side her  he  gently  took  her  hands  and  patted  them,  told 
her  how  he  cared  for  her,  the  while  he  searched  her  eyes 
until  they  yielded  to  him  and  made  him  feel  a  little 
ashamed  that  this  power  over  her  was  so  complete.  He 
saw  that  he  had  found  the  dominating  note  of  her  nature, 
and  through  that,  now,  he  would  always  be  safe  no  matter 
what  happened,  as  long  as  he  made  his  attack  along  that 
line. 


THE    TAKER  261 

And  when  Marcy  heard  the  caressing  words  shrouding 
his  desire  for  her,  she  felt  sorry  she  had  doubted  him,  and 
guilty  for  having  made  the  man  who  really  loved  her 
suffer  so.  She  resisted  him  no  longer. 

"Oh,  you  get  so  cruel,  sometimes,"  she  cried,  with  pout- 
ing lips,  "but  I'm  sorry  if  I  hurt  you.  I  understand  you 
better  now.  You  do  love  me,  don't  you?" 

He  whispered  back : 

"Why,  Marcy,  my  little  foolish  sweetheart!'*  But  the 
pity  of  it  all  filled  him  with  sadness. 

She  then  leaned  over  and  framed  his  face  with  her  two 
soft  hands.  "Kiss  me  then,"  she  begged — "  'cause  I  love 
you,  and  always  will." 

And  Vernon,  again  invaded  by  the  disenchantment  that 
attainment  always  brought  him,  wondered  if  he  would  ever 
meet  a  woman  who  would  stimulate  him  by  defying  him,  a 
woman  who  would  make  him  rise  to  the  heights  of  conquest 
by  being  adamant. 

He  had  a  trying  time  with  himself  that  night,  however. 
Forced  by  some  whim,  when  he  left  Marcy,  he  entered 
the  subway  at  Ninety-sixth  Street  and  stayed  under- 
ground till  he  was  at  the  Battery,  looking  out  over  the 
water  of  the  bay.  Then  he  went  up  into  the  fresh  air  and 
walked  across  the  park,  beckoned  on  his  way  by  a  tribe 
of  chirping  sparrows,  protesting  against  this  intrusion, 
until  he  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  water. 

Somehow,  he  felt  overwhelmed  with  melancholy.  The 
inky  expanse  of  water,  stretching  out  like  a  bottomless 
pit,  seemed  as  desolate  and  barren  as  his  feelings.  Walk- 
ing along  slowly,  with  head  down,  listening  to  the  lapping 
of  the  waves  as  they  struck  the  logs  of  the  shore  wall  be- 
neath him,  he  thought  over  what  strange  turns  life  had 
taken  for  him. 


262  THE    TAKER 

Perhaps  a  mile  out,  a  tiny  light  was  blinking  along 
its  uneven  course.  But  no  human  sound  came  out  of  the 
idle  bay's  watery  expanse.  Only  a  spot  of  denser  dark- 
ness showed  itself  gradually  where  the  Island  held  the 
Statue  of  Liberty. 

Suddenly  he  thought  of  all  the  people  who  must  have 
found  a  watery  grave  around  the  small,  beacon-light  of 
Freedom  that  topped  the  silhouetted  structure — people 
who  had  yearned  and  hoped,  perhaps  as  he  had.  He 
thought  on,  that  this  might  have  been  their  way  of  gaining 
Liberty. 

Death  lurked  in  his  soul. 

For  the  moment  he  could  not  blame  people  for  having 
such  a  horror  of  the  dead  that  they  buried  them  far 
underground — away  from  their  thoughts.  He  could  not 
help  looking  at  the  water  through  the  eyes  of  his  de- 
pression— and  the  dark,  rolling  surface  became  actually 
inviting. 

Transfixed,  the  idea  encompassed  him.  It  took  some 
strength  to  turn  and  run  away  from  it,  not  stopping  till 
he  reached  the  protecting  entrance  of  a  side  street  saloon 
marked  "Seaman's  Rest,"  with  a  red  light  over  the  door. 
He  found  himself  actually  muttering  with  fright  as  he 
entered. 

Inside  he  saw  a  rough  crowd  of  men  hanging  over  the 
bar.  But  he  ran  up  and  cried  hoarsely :  "Gimme  a  drink 
of  whiskey." 

It  was  not  until  he  had  got  it  down  that  he  felt  entirely 
safe  from  the  watery  grave. 

It  had  seemed  to  him  as  he  looked  at  the  black  water, 
and  the  Island  resting  on  it,  that  there  was  a  great  coffin, 
resting  on  the  sea,  waiting  for  him,  with  a  light  above  it 
to  show  him  the  way. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

IT^ORGETFUL,  unconscious  of  passing  time,  Marcy 
•*•  grew  to  actually  believe  Vernon  her  mate.  And  she 
began  making  certain  demands  of  him. 

Such  unwise  demands  as  the  wife  makes  of  her  hus- 
band. 

She  became  utterly  blind  so  far  as  her  own  welfare  was 
concerned,  and  as  utterly  unaware  of  the  real  reason  for 
Vernon's  increasing  restlessness  and  periods  of  brooding 
whenever  he  was  with  her. 

Many  times  she  would  become  curious  to  know  what 
held  him  so  unhappy.  But  she  blindly  took  his  passivity 
as  having  something  to  do  with  his  love  for  her,  and 
smiled  at  any  troubling  idea. 

One  day  she  ran  over  to  him,  fondled  his  face  and 
caressed  his  hair  and  said: 

"Leonard,  you  ought  to  be  terribly  happy  when  you 
know  I  love  you  so."  Laughing  in  a  queer,  broken  fash- 
ion she  told  him:  "I'm  just  so  happy;  things  like  what 
are  going  to  happen  are  just  too  far  away  to  think  about. 
Now  be  a  l/ttle  more  cheery." 

And  Vernon  looked  at  her  while  the  thought  gnawed  its 
way  into  his  consciousness  that  here  again  was  yet  an- 
other— Jenny — and  commonplaceness — and  blunder — 
blunder !  And  he  became  racked  by  the  thought  that  some 
vindictive  fate  was  pursuing  him  with  the  Jennies  of  the 
world — that  he  would  never  get  away  from  them.  But  the 
days  managed  to  pass  somehow,  covered  by  a  veneer  of 

263 


264  THE    TAKER 

hypocrisy  on  his  part  and  a  blind  grasping  at  what- 
ever was  offered  on  the  part  of  Marcy.  And  though  they 
had  no  more  harsh  words  there  still  was  not  the  complete 
happiness  that  Marcy  kept  praying  for.  It  was  much  as 
if  she  were  waiting  on  a  sand  beach,  for  the  tide  to  go  out 
so  that  the  sand  might  be  free  to  dry  its  entire  breadth 
in  the  sunlight,  and  the  tide  never  went  back — only  crept 
a  little  closer. 

Then,  one  night,  Vernon  phoned  to  say  that  he  could 
not  stop  in  over  the  week-end. 

"I'm  sorry,  honestly — but  it's  business.  I've  got  to 
do  it,"  came  his  soft  voice  at  her  ears. 

Marcy  was  woefully  affected.  All  day  she  had  been  an- 
ticipating him  and  resting  so  that  she  would  not  look  tired 
or  worn.  When  evening  had  come,  the  coloured  maid  had 
helped  her  into  a  new  gown  that  she  had  found  on  Fifth 
Avenue  only  the  day  before,  a  gown  that  blended  per- 
fectly with  her  hair  and  her  skin.  She  had  even  dressed 
hurriedly  in  fear  that  he  would  come  before  she  was  ready, 
which  gave  her  so  long  a  time  to  sit  waiting  for  him.  She 
had  purposely  turned  the  lights  down  low,  too,  so  that  he 
would  come  in  and  at  first  not  discover  her.  With  many 
a  little  burst  of  glee  she  had  gone  over  the  picture  of  his 
surprise  when  the  first  thing  he  knew  her  arms  were  around 
his  neck.  She  thought  a  good  deal  about  how  he  would 
be  affected  by  her  appearance,  how  he  would  stand  her  off 
in  front  of  him  and  gaze  at  her  proudly  and  then  say,  as 
he  had  done  so  many  times:  "Won't  we  be  proud  to- 
night, when  they  see  us  walk  through  the  Plaza." 

She  could  even  picture  his  proud  manner  when  the  head- 
waiter  would  come  up  and  say :  "Good  evening,  Mr.  Ver- 
non, I've  saved  your  table  for  you." 

And  then,  through  the  black  receiver  of  the  telephone 


THE    TAKER  265 

she  had  heard  him  say — that  he  would  not  come — home. 

His  manner  seemed  cold  and  hard,  she  thought;  over 
the  wires  it  sounded  like  words  made  of  ice  or  moulded 
in  steel. 

"At  least,  Lennie,"  she  pleaded,  "you  might  have  run 
in  for  a  minute." 

He  stayed  away  from  her  for  three  whole  days.  And 
those  three  days  Marcy  lay  in  her  chintz-curtained  bed- 
room, inert  and  listless,  with  the  covers  high  over  her,  a 
vain  effort  to  warm  the  inner  chill  of  her  soul. 

She  had  just  the  slightest  diversion  when  a  Mrs.  Ranier 
called,  a  sweet-faced,  blonde,  little  woman,  of  about  thirty- 
eight,  who  lived  alone  across  the  hall. 

"I  just  thought  I  would  run  in.  I  noticed  that  your — 
husband — "  she  hesitated  and  smiled  in  a  knowing  way, 
"wasn't  in." 

Marcy  started  to  protest,  even  become  angry,  but  Mrs. 
Ranier's  manner  was  so  motherly,  she  could  only  com- 
ment: 

"Yes ;  he's  been  away  a  good  deal  lately." 

The  woman  said :  "I  understand,  dear  child."  And  then 
hurried  on  to  tell  about  her  own  life,  while  her  eyes  seemed 
to  devour  the  beautiful  Marcy. 

"I  had  a  little  girl,  dear — by  my  second  husband,  and 
you  mustn't  mind  if  I  mother  you  a  little." 

Sitting  in  the  light  from  the  pink-shadowed  piano-lamp, 
the  pert  little  woman  talked  for  an  hour  or  more,  while 
Marcy  listened  and  felt  a  real  comfort  in  having  her  near. 
Although  she  listened  incessantly  for  Vernon's  ring  or  his 
steps  on  the  front  walk. 

The  woman  said  softly: 

"Yes,  dearie,  my  little  one  died,  but  not  before  I  learned 
something  that  has  lasted  with  me  ever1  since.  I  have 


266  THE    TAKER 

found  out  what  love  means.  Oh,  yes ;  love  of  any  kind." 
As  Marcy  looked  up  questioningly,  she  continued :  "Yes ; 
the  love  of  a  man  and  woman  or  a  mother  and  her  child 
— it's  all  the  same." 

She  thought  on:  "Why,  I  used  to  sit  at  night  and 
study  the  little  one's  profile  and  think  to  myself  how  won- 
derful it  was — and  that  a  living,  throbbing  being  could 
come  out  of  love."  The  woman  looked  up  smiling.  "I 
think  she'd  have  grown  up  beautiful  like  you,  too, 
Mrs. " 

Marcy  broke  in  as  the  woman  hesitated : 

"Mrs.  Vernon " 

With  an  apology  that  she  didn't  remember  seeing  the 
name  on  the  letterbox,  she  went  on,  pausing  long  enough 
to  say  that  her  own  name  was  Mrs.  Ranier,  spelled  R-a-n- 
i-e-r;  then  saying,  "Yes;  she  had  your  silky  hair,  too, 
deary,  and  your  fresh  skin  and  even  as  a  little  thing  was 
just  as  slender  as  you." 

For  a  moment  her  eyes  seemed  to  rest  on  the  gentle  out- 
ward curve  at  Marcy's  hips,  made  even  more  alluring  by 
the  soft  silk  covering. 

Then  she  sighed,  and  said :  "Yes,  my  dear,  you  are  very 
lucky." 

"I  know  I  am,"  Marcy  said  earnestly.  "But  what  makes 
you  think  so?" 

"Oh,  in  having  such  a  fine  man  as  Mr.  Vernon.  He's 
some  handsome  man!"  she  exclaimed  with  admiration  in 
her  voice,  "and  so  refined,  too." 

Marcy  looked  at  her.     "Yes;  he  is — isn't  he?" 

It  brought  joy  to  her  heart  to  have  this  woman  speak 
well  of  the  man  she  loved. 

Mrs.  Ranier  went  on,  while  the  thought  came  to  Marcy 


THE    TAKER  267 

that  she  must  keep  her  talking  so  that  she  would  stay  and 
could  meet  Leonard. 

"Fve  been  married  twice — though  I'm — "  she  hesitated 
— "only  twenty-nine  now.  But  I've  been  unlucky,  poor 
and  all  that.  I've  had  to  take  what  the  Fates  handed  me, 
but  you  bet  I  got  rid  of  my  second  quick  enough.  He  was 
at  least  twenty  years  older  than  I." 

"Oh,  how  terrible,"  Marcy  exclaimed. 

"Well,  it  was  terrible.  I  used  to  lie  by  his  side  and  see 
his  grizzly  face  and  coarse,  wrinkled  skin  and  think  how 
wonderful  it  would  be  to  have  some  one  like  your  husband, 
fine  and  smart-looking.  Anyway,  it  got  so  I  could  hardly 
stand  him.  Once,  I  remember  I  did  forget  myself  and  put 
my  arm  around  him,  when  I  was  half  asleep." 

Held  by  the  woman's  intimate  and  friendly  way,  Marcy 
was  really  interested;  quite  disgustedly,  she  exclaimed: 
"Oh,  how  terrible ;  what  did  he  do  ?" 

"Do!  Why — he  was  downright  surprised,  thought  he 
had  started  up  some  love  in  me ;  took  hold  of  me  and  be- 
gan calling  me  pet-names,  'sweetheart,'  his  'little  one.1 
Then  I  woke  up  and  saw  his  wrinkled  face  and  bleary 
eyes " 

Her  face  changed  in  expression  now.  There  was  a 
different  light  in  her  eyes. 

"It  was  then  I  determined  to  be  a  mother,  Mrs.  Vernon. 
I  wanted  love  and  affection,  and  as  long  as  I  was  married 
to  him,  I  couldn't  have  it  and  be  true  to  him — unless  it 
came  through  a  child." 

She  reflected,  while  Marcy  looked  on  with  rising  sym- 
pathy: 

"Maybe  a  lot  of  women  are  like  that.  You  see,"  she 
added,  "it  was  the  only  chance  I  had  at  love,  anyway." 

Vernon  did  not  come  in  until  Monday.     And  Marcy 


268  THE    TAKER 

tried  to  meet  him  with  a  gay  manner,  as  though  nothing 
had  happened,  and  she  had  amused  herself  and  not  noticed 
the  passing  time.  This,  she  had  discovered,  from  a  "Let- 
ters to  the  Lovelorn"  column  of  an  evening  paper,  was 
the  way  to  bring  back  a  husband  who  is  wandering  from 
you.  The  futility  of  this  method,  applied  to  her  own 
case,  smote  her,  but  she  must  grope  at  anything,  even  if 
her  intelligence  told  her  what  was  the  truth. 

She  thought,  too,  that  this  would  anger  him  and  make 
him  suspicious.  But  it  was  a  bulwark  which  gave  her  no 
protection.  Vernon  was  restless  more  than  ever.  His 
voice  was  gentle  but  contained  no  lover's  message.  And 
though  she  knew  how  he  rebelled  at  any  pecking  word 
from  her  even  as  she  wanted  to  say  something  buoyant 
and  casual,  her  desire  inexplicably  fused  with  thoughts 
of  punishing  him  and  of  displaying  real  evidence  of  her 
lonely  vigil.  And  she  burst  out : 

"That  was  the  first  time  you  ever  stayed  away  from  me 
so  long,  Leonard,  without  calling  me  up." 

"I  am  sorry,  dear,"  he  answered. 

But  he  ventured  no  further  explanation,  and  his  eyes 
were  hard  and  thoughtful  looking. 

Vernon's  absences  became  the  usual  order  during  a 
period  that  covered  the  next  three  months.  Beyond  an- 
noyances like  whispered  gossip  that  came  to  her  ears 
through  the  maid  and  the  very  noticeable  ostracism  of  the 
tenants  (except  Mrs.  Ranier  across  the  hall),  which  dis- 
turbed her  very  little,  nothing  really  unusual  happened 
that  she  could  point  out  as  an  event.  However,  it  did 
seem  as  if  there  had  been  a  great  change,  as  if  an  alien 
hand  were  controlling  things  for  her. 

While  this  state  of  affairs  lasted  Marcy  watched  assidu- 
ously for  the  definite  thing  to  happen  that  would  allow 


THE    TAKER  269 

her  to  go  to  Vernon  and  tell  him  exactly  how  things  were 
different.  But  he  would  only  come  in  and  be  as  gentle 
and  kind  with  her  as  ever. 

During  the  bright,  crisp  days  of  early  fall,  he  even 
seemed  to  be  more  like  himself  again  for  a  time,  which 
made  Marcy  once  more  gay  and  happy.  Indeed,  she  ac- 
cepted his  every  changing  mood  as  being  indicative  of  his 
feelings  only  at  the  moment ;  as  if  she  had  builded  in  her 
inner  consciousness,  a  protective  understanding  that  it 
was  better  to  be  deceived  and  get  what  had  the  semblance 
of  fidelity,  than  to  peer  down  into  the  depths  and  destroy 
that  which  was  at  least  fooling  her. 

But  one  night  when  she  had  thought  him  even  too  gentle 
and  respectful  to  her,  she  said: 

"Lennie,  I  am  terribly  worried.  And  I  can't  tell  you 
just  what  it  is  that  makes  me  feel  that  way.  I  honestly 
believe  you  don't  care  as  much  for  me  as  you  used  to. 
I  feel  as  if  you  wanted  to  be  away  from  me  and  only  saw 
me  because  you  did  not  want  to  hurt  me."  She  came 
over  and  knelt  down  on  the  floor  by  his  side  and  placed 
her  head  on  his  knee.  "I  found  something  awfully  funny 
in  a  magazine  to-day,"  she  went  on.  "It  said  something 
about  a  love  that  dies,  being  like  drinking  water  after  you 
had  had  wine.  It  made  me  think  that  maybe  that  is  the 
way  it  is  with  us,  now." 

When  he  kept  strangely  silent  her  fright  became  more 
real. 

"Oh,  tell  me,"  she  cried,  "you  mustn't  just  think  like 
that.  Tell  me  the  truth." 

After  repeated  imploring  from  her,  Vernon  finally  got 
up  and  tore  himself  away.  And  for  the  first  time  in  a 
long  while  his  voice  had  the  ring  of  one  forced  against  his 
will  to  speak  unpleasantly: 


270  THE    TAKER 

"Just  leave  me  alone,  Marcy,"  he  said,  "I  can't  tell 
you." 

He  started  pacing  the  room. 

Sitting  stupefied  for  a  time,  all  she  could  do  was  to  fol- 
low him  frantically  with  her  eyes. 

Then  she  managed  to  break  loose  from  the  spell  which 
held  her,  and  ran  to  his  side. 

"Do  you  mean  it?"  she  cried.  "Oh,  I  can't  believe  it." 
She  added  resolutely:  "No;  I  won't  believe  it."  Then  she 
faced  him  squarely  again,  holding  on  to  the  sleeve  of  his 
coat.  "Do  you  know  what  you  are  doing  to  me,  Lennie? 
Well,  I'll  tell  you.  You're  killing  me  when  all  I  want  to 
do  is  live — just  to  love  you." 

In  another  moment  she  had  crushed  into  a  heap  on  the 
floor  at  his  feet. 

For  nearly  a  minute  Vernon  gazed  down  at  her,  while 
the  thought  came  into  his  mind  that  this  certainly  was  the 
beginning  of  the  end  for  them.  That  it  was  of  no  use  now 
to  follow  the  old  recipe  of  gentleness.  He  must  go  on 
brutally  to  the  finish,  fighting  the  consequences  as  they 
came. 

He  knelt  down  beside  her  and  raised  her  head,  struck  by 
the  thought  that  she  looked  quite  lifeless,  that  maybe  some 
heart  attack  had  stricken  her  and  that  she  was  dead. 
That  would  be  a  dilemma,  indeed.  He  might  even  be 
charged  with  some  crime.  There  flashed  before  him  the 
incriminating  headlines  of  a  newspaper. 

And  Vernon  grew  actually  scared,  slapping  her  wrists 
frenziedly  for  a  time,  and  then  running  into  the  bathroom 
and  getting  a  glass  of  water  which  he  brought  back  and 
dashed  full  in  her  face. 

When  she  slowly  opened  her  eyes  and  he  saw  that  she 
was  all  right  again,  the  thought  encompassed  him  that 


THE    TAKER  271 

she  had  been  shamming  just  to  scare  him,  or  to  make  him 
sorry  for  his  treatment  of  her. 

But  he  smoothed  her  temples  gently,  the  while  she  sob- 
bed, thinking  that  if  he  let  this  time  pass  it  would  not  be 
long  before  she  would  thrust  ah1  the  responsibility  of  her 
life  upon  him.  He  saw  that  she  would  be  so  helpless  that 
even  like  a  father,  more  than  a  lover,  he  would  have  to 
take  care  of  her. 

And  that  was  not  the  sort  of  thing  for  him. 

Standing  over  the  dishevelled  little  figure,  Leonard  be- 
came lost  between  pity  for  her  and  pity  for  himself,  be- 
tween the  understanding  that  she  needed  him  and  the  real- 
isation that  the  rest  of  his  life  would  be  ruined  if  he  let 
his  pity  for  her  control  him.  He  looked  down  at  her 
throbbing  temples.  Their  beating  vessels  seemed  to  send 
out  an  appeal  for  help  which  was  even  the  more  empha- 
sised by  one  or  two  strands  of  prematurely  grey  hair. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  difficult  proposition  to  complete  the 
task  he  had  set  out  to  accomplish. 

When  he  began  to  talk  again  to  the  tearful  child,  he 
had  to  turn  his  face  away,  so  that  his  resolution  would 
not  be  weakened  by  any  appeal  from  her.  So  he  spoke 
quickly,  in  an  attempt  to  crowd  in  all  the  words  he  could 
muster,  before  her  frail  cry  might  weaken  him. 

"Marcy,  listen,"  he  said,  looking  down  over  her  again. 
"I'm  going  to  leave.  I've  been  thinking  about  it  for 
months  and  months.  I  can't  go  on  with  this.  You  are 
getting  older  and  I — well — I  want  you  to  have  some  real 
kind  of  a  home  where  you  can  live  decently  and  get  hon- 
estly what  you  deserve." 

She  raised  herself  with  mouth  agape  at  his  words.  And 
then,  as  if  to  shut  off  further  argument,  she  placed  her 


272  THE    TAKER 

hand  to  his  lips  and  cried:  "Why,  haven't  I  been  good? 
Have  I  ever  done  anything  wrong?" 

"That  isn't  what  I  mean,  Marcy,"  he  went  on,  his  brow 
deep  with  furrows.  "I  mean — a  different  kind  of  home. 
You  don't  think  now  but — well,  in  a  few  years  I'll  be  so 
old  you  won't  care  for  me." 

"I  will  always  care  for  you,"  she  broke  in. 

He  lifted  his  hand  protestingly. 

"Oh,  you  say  it  now,  Marcy,  but  I've  lived  longer  than 
you  have.  I  know."  His  words  came  in  more  restless 
fashion.  "Anyway,  we  have  got  to  think  about  it.  if 
we  went  on  much  longer  it  would  be  too  late  for  you,  so 
we've  got  to  think  about  it  now,  Marcy.  It's  only  for  you 
that  I  say  this.  You  know  I  am  not  thinking  about  my- 
self." 

At  last  the  words  were  out.  He  wondered  how  he  had 
accomplished  it.  Not  daring  to  look  at  her,  yet  he  knew 
she  was  sinking  to  the  floor  and  hysterically  trying  to 
argue  with  him. 

To  shut  this  off  he  continued,  without  looking  at  the 
crumpled  heap  at  his  feet.  But  he  found  there  was  a  cold 
sweat  breaking  out  upon  his  forehead,  which  he  wiped 
away  with  his  silk  handkerchief.  Then  he  went  on : 

"Yes,  Marcy,  there's  a  price  to  pay  for  everything  in 
this  world,  and  we  both  have  given  our  years.  People 
never  realise  things  like  this  until  it  is  too  late.  Marcy, 
I  would  be  a  criminal  if  I  let  you  give  yourself  to  me  any 
longer." 

After  a  moment,  the  intelligence  came  to  him  that  now 
would  be  a  good  time  to  go.  So  he  walked  to  the  door, 
saying  as  he  went : 

"You  know  I'll  do  the  square  thing  by  you.  You  can 
have  all  the  furniture  and  to-morrow  I  want  you  to  stop 


THE    TAKER  273 

at  the  office  at  say — ten  o'clock.  Now,"  he  reached  into 
his  inside  coat  pocket  and  thoughtfully  withdrew  a 
leather  packet  from  which  he  took  out  a  yellow-back  bill, 
"here's  some  money,  Marcy,  for  a  few  days — if  you  don't 
feel  able  to  come  down  to-morrow." 

He  took  his  hat  from  the  chair  and  walked  out  of  the 
room. 

While  Marcy,  for  just  one  kind  word  from  him  even 
yet,  would  willingly  have  crucified  herself  on  the  very  tree 
whereon  her  anguish  had  engraved  deep  the  legend  of  her 
past  love  and  devotion. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

T  T  was  a  grey  twilight  in  the  room  before  Marcy  had 
•*•  strength  to  raise  herself  from  where  she  had  slipped  to 
the  floor.  Even  then  she  had  not  the  ability  to  review  the 
situation  or  make  any  plans.  There  was  only  a  terrible 
ache  in  her  heart — an  unutterable  pain — as  if  it  had  been 
torn  out  of  her  body — and  its  wound  left  gaping.  Even 
the  wind  at  the  door  made  her  feel  as  if  some  poor  wan- 
derer was  outside,  waiting  to  take  her  away. 

Just  for  a  passing  moment  she  recalled  Vernon's  last 
words.  And  then  she  cried  to  the  bare  walls : 

"You  hear!  The  man  you  loved  offered  you  money — 
do  you  hear — the  man  you  loved?" 

She  sank  back  on  to  the  floor  again,  sobbing,  though 
no  tears  came  into  her  eyes.  It  was  as  if  they  flowed  into 
some  internal  well  of  misery. 

Another  hour  passed. 

And  she  held  out  until  the  darkness  of  the  room  became 
intolerable.  Then  she  groped  her  way  into  the  hall  of 
the  apartment  building  and  through  the  front  door  into 
the  street,  lacking  the  courage  to  turn  on  the  switch  but- 
ton and  see  by  light,  all  the  things  that  would  remind  her 
of  him.  She  walked  out  of  the  house,  bent,  like  an  old 
woman,  starting  at  each  touch  of  the  furniture  or  the 
walls.  When  she  reached  the  sidewalk  there  was  the  same 
queer  proportion  to  everything.  Things  were  distorted, 
dark,  gloomy  looking:  the  corner  lamps  looked  streaky, 
dim,  the  street,  narrow  and  dark;  everything  seemed  to 

274 


THE    TAKER  275 

be  touched  by  the  same  destructive  hand  of  sadness  that 
was  rending  her,  heart  and  soul. 

Shuddering,  she  walked  on,  fearing  to  take  each  step 
as  if  it  would  carry  her  to  greater  unhappiness. 

Continually  in  front  of  her,  though  very  vague  in  out- 
line, was  her  scene  with  Vernon.  How  he  had  stood  over 
her,  talking.  How  bitterly  mean  he  had  appeared.  How 
she  had  loved  him.  And  now  she  would  have  him  no  longer. 
No  longer  could  she  touch  his  soft  hair  with  her  hands, 
or  kiss  him  unexpectedly,  as  he  came  in  the  front  door. 
He  had  left  her  because  he  was  tired  of  her.  That  was  it. 
She  had  noticed  it  coming  for  months. 

A  man  passed  her  without  the  slightest  notice,  even 
though  she  was  sobbing.  And  somehow  Marcy  felt  more 
poignantly  alone  than  ever.  Was  it  a  common  sight  for 
sobbing  women  whose  hearts  had  been  broken  to  pass 
along  the  city's  streets,  she  asked  herself. 

Hardly  aware  of  how  she  got  there,  Marcy  found  her- 
self in  front  of  The  Welton,  the  hotel  where  Vernon  had 
his  own  apartments.  As  she  looked  up  she  saw  lights  in 
the  fourth  story  where  his  apartment  was.  The  curtains 
were  drawn  to.  "He's  probably  up  there,"  she  told  her- 
self, "and  already  forgetting  me."  She  looked  at  the 
stone  steps  and  the  white  marble  entrance  which  led  into 
the  warm  light  inside.  She  could  never  again  have  the 
right  to  go  in  that  entrance  with  him. 

Overcome  suddenly  by  weakness,  Marcy  sank  down 
against  the  iron  railing,  her  body  convulsed  by  deep  in- 
ternal sobs  that  every  moment  seemed  to  gain  fuller  sway, 
while  a  chill  wind  rattled  through  the  trees  and  scattered 
the  dry,  crackling  leaves  about  her,  whirling  them  into  an 
eddy  around  her  feet  for  an  instant,  and  finally  chasing 


276  THE    TAKER 

them  off  into  the  gutter  .  .  .  dead  leaves,  refuse,  until 
the  street-cleaner  came,  or  the  snows. 

Sinking  into  a  heap  in  the  shadow  of  the  entrance,  she 
lay  there  benumbed,  barely  conscious  of  her  surroundings 
until  the  big-coated  doorman,  not  recognising  her  as  the 
little  friend  of  the  man  who  tipped  so  liberally,  shoved  her 
on  down  the  street. 

To  be  alone,  Marcy  dismissed  her  maid  on  the  morning 
following  Vernon's  departure.  Sight  of  the  inquisitive 
darky  brought  back  too  many  memories.  After  the 
woman  had  bid  her  a  sweet  good-bye,  Marcy  went  to  her 
room  and  like  an  automaton  thereafter  slept  and  ate. 

For  four  days  on  end  she  hardly  stirred.  Mentally  and 
physically  she  was  inert.  Life  gave  forth  no  vibrations 
in  her  body  or  soul.  No  greater  was  her  desire  for  a  way 
out  of  her  dilemma  than  was  her  ability  to  choose  that 
pathway;  just  a  dull  ache  from  head  to  foot  and  a  fast 
withering  of  desire  to  live.  Even  what  was  labelled  love 
in  her  inner  consciousness  had  foundered  in  a  sea  of  pain- 
ful reality. 

Day  and  night  she  either  lay  on  her  bed  or  sat  by  the 
low  front  window,  swinging  back  and  forth  in  a  rocking 
chair,  neither  thinking  nor  seeing,  but  swinging  to  and 
fro,  like  a  pendulum,  as  if  certain  hours  must  be  swung 
away  before  she  could  live  again,  or  die.  It  was  like  an 
atonement. 

Many  times  during  these  hours  Marcy  thought  in  a 
vague,  inco-ordinated  way,  that  she  must  die,  which 
usually  ended  with  the  self  interrogation,  "But  why  should 
I  die?  He  wouldn't  care " 

This  was  the  order  of  her  life  until  the  fifth  night  after 
Vernon's  departure,  when,  automatically  and  with  no  rea- 
son in  her  mind  for  doing  so,  she  attired  herself  as  for 


THE    TAKER  277 

some  holiday  jaunt,  walked  over  to  the  subway  station  on 
Broadway  and  down  the  steps  to  the  platform,  as  if  she 
had  some  business  or  an  actual  engagement  to  attend  to. 

When  the  train  reached  Times  Square,  she  came  out 
with  the  rest  of  the  crowd  and  was  soon  up  on  the  street 
moving  along  with  the  restless  throng. 

She  wondered  a  little  why  she  had  left  the  apartment, 
although  now  there  was  a  certain  mocking  cry  way  back 
in  her  mind  against  her  innocent  pose,  that  told  her  the 
only  reason  she  had  come  out  was  the  hope  of  catching  a 
glimpse  of  the  man  she  loved. 

At  one  huge  hotel  a  policeman  held  her  back  while  a 
half  dozen  well-groomed  women  in  shining  gowns  crossed 
the  path  in  front  of  her  and  entered  waiting  motor  cars. 
Further  along  the  street  she  saw  a  young  girl,  quite  her 
own  age,  lifted  into  a  car  by  a  young  man.  The  fellow 
smiled  up  at  the  girl  as  he  helped  her,  and  Marcy  saw 
the  girl,  in  a  movement  quick  as  the  wind,  brush  a  kiss 
against  the  upturned  face. 

Marcy  had  a  fight  to  keep  from  crying  out.  Why, 
through  no  fault  of  her  own,  had  she  been  robbed  of  all 
future  happiness? 

And  now  Marcy  walked  along  the  lighted  street  more 
hurriedly.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  were  tramping  on 
forbidden  ground.  Wondering  if  every  one  had  money 
and  love  that  did  not  trouble  them,  she  exclaimed  aloud 
bitterly  as  she  walked:  "Oh,  what  has  he  done  to  me? 
Won't  I  ever  be  happy  again?"  She  even  tried  to  tell  her- 
self that  when  she  went  back  to  the  little  apartment  Ver- 
non  would  be  awaiting  her;  that  it  had  all  been  a  wild 
nightmare.  Then,  strangely  she  fell  to  speculating  if  it 
were  all  her  fault,  if  a  girl  like  her  had  no  right  to  the 
happiness  she  had  known. 


278  THE    TAKER 

It  was  under  the  lights  of  Columbus  Circle  that  Marcy, 
held  back  by  a  line  of  motor  cars,  caught  a  glimpse  of 
some  women  in  evening  dress  in  a  limousine,  smoking  and 
laughing  gaily.  As  she  watched,  there  crept  into  her 
thoughts,  even  gripped  at  her  heart,  a  solacing  under- 
standing of  all  this  world  of  sham. 

"I  know,"  she  told  herself;  "they're  just  too  scared  to 
think  about — things." 

Now  she  stopped  in  front  of  a  brilliantly  lighted  res- 
taurant above  the  Circle  where  a  gold-bedecked  porter 
stood  ready  to  open  the  door  of  each  successive  automo- 
bile that  came,  a  place  where  Vernon  and  she  had  had  so 
many  happy  times  together.  Strangely  the  place  brought 
back  to  her  a  whole  succession  of  events  quite  from  the 
time  she  had  so  ignorantly  married  Lester  Moore. 

As  Marcy  stood  there,  looking  in  upon  the  crowd  eat- 
ing and  drinking,  a  policeman  came  along  and  prodded 
her  with  his  nightstick. 

"Get  along,  kid,"  he  said.     "Nothin*  doing  here." 

When  she  failed  to  move,  he  took  her  arm  and  re- 
peated hotly:  "Do  you  hear?" 

Marcy  took  hold  of  the  thick  fingers  that  squeezed  her 
arm  and  cried  out  angrily,  "Why,  I  am  only  looking  in." 

But  the  officer  laughed  at  her  and  muttered  gruffly: 
"Never  mind  the  innocent  game.  Now  get  along." 

And  then  a  doll-like  woman  with  golden  hair  and  wide- 
open  eyes  but  with  a  face  matured  by  wise  wrinkles,  step- 
ped out  of  a  car.  She  was  accompanied  by  a  tall  man 
muffled  in  a  heavy  evening  coat.  The  policeman  had  al- 
ready shoved  Marcy  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  restaurant, 
but  she  was  not  too  far  away  to  look  at  the  man,  who  for 
a  moment  stopped  to  give  an  authoritative  command  to 
the  chauffeur. 


THE    TAKER  279 

It  might  have  been  Vernon  from  the  way  the  man  smiled, 
so  wistfully  and  father-like. 

She  could  hardly  restrain  herself  from  running  up  and 
looking  into  his  face. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

THAT  night  Marcy  sat  in  a  rocker  by  the  window  and 
wept  all  night.  Her  soul  flooded  with  despair;  she 
felt  it  of  no  use  to  live  on.  However,  toward  morning,  a 
ray  of  hope  did  inject  itself  into  her  mired  senses.  And 
then  in  a  careless  distorted  scrawl  made  even  worse  by  the 
dim,  early  light  coming  into  the  room,  she  wrote : 

"DEAR  LEONARD: 

"I  know  it's  all  over  between  us.  But  I  j  ust  must  see  you — • 
about  something.  I'll  not  beg  you  to  come  back  for  good. 
But  please,  please,  come  this  time.  I  can't  tell  you  what  it 
will  mean  to  me. 

"Sincerely  your  friend, 

"MARCY." 

Only  after  she  had  posted  it  at  the  corner  mailbox  and 
returned  to  the  leather  rocker,  could  she  doze  off  into 
sleep. 

...  It  was  about  seven  o'clock  the  next  evening  that 
Marcy  heard  some  one  fumbling  at  the  bell,  and  ran  to  the 
front  window.  Vernon  was  standing  there,  his  finger  press- 
ing on  the  electric  button.  The  thought  stifled  her  that  for 
the  first  time  he  was  not  using  his  key.  However,  she  con- 
trolled herself  and  walked  into  the  hall  and  opened  the 
door  for  him. 

Vernon  came  in  slowly,  studied  her  silent  gaze  at  him 
and  then  walked  into  the  front  room.  At  first  she  could 

280 


THE    TAKER  281 

not  follow  him,  but  when  he  sat  in  a  chair,  in  fact  the 
same  rocker  where  she  kept  her  all-day  vigil,  she  went  in. 

He  looked  up.    "How  are  you  getting  along?"  he  asked. 

His  speech  eased  a  little  the  tension  between  them.  But 
Marcy  could  think  of  no  answer  until  she  saw  the  soft 
brown  hat  he  was  turning  between  his  fingers.  Then  she 
reached  down,  saying,  "Won't  you  let  me  take  your  hat? 
You — can  stay  a  while,  can't  you?" 

When  she  walked  into  the  hall,  Vernon  could  not  keep 
his  eyes  from  following  her.  Her  little  figure  was  still 
as  trim  and  straight  as  ever.  He  felt  a  little  eased  with 
the  idea  that  perhaps  she  had  not  suffered  so  much  after 
all. 

Then  Marcy  came  into  the  room  again.  In  the  hall  she 
had  taken  a  hasty  glance  at  the  mirror  and  prayed  that 
the  tears  would  stay  back,  so  he  would  see  that  she  wanted 
to  be  reasonable  and  did  not  want  to  worry  him. 

She  found  him  looking  about  the  room,  as  if  he  were  in 
some  strange  place  when  she  came  back.  She  felt  like 
crying  out:  "I  suppose  you  recognise — things — Lennie!" 
but  held  herself. 

For  some  time  there  was  silence.  Then  he  broke  in 
restrainedly :  "You  said  in  your  note  that  there  was  some- 
thing you  wanted  to  see  me  about." 

She  looked  down  at  the  small  rug  in  front  of  the  grate. 
He  had  plunged  into  the  question  without  giving  her 
notice. 

At  last  she  muttered :  "Well,  I — I  am,  oh,  terribly  un- 
happy. I  guess  you  know  that." 

"I  thought  you  said  you'd  be  sensible!"  he  exclaimed. 
He  even  allowed  a  little  anger  to  creep  into  his  words. 
After  all,  did  she  think  he  thought  her  happy?  And  he 
knew  he  must  not  pity  her.  Pity — pity — that  was  what 


282  THE    TAKER  % 

ruined  so  many  men.  And  since  they  had  gone  contrary 
to  convention — one  at  least  had  to  suffer.  He  reflected 
that  that  was  better  than  both  suffering1. 

Looking  at  her  trembling  fingers  which  were  twisting 
frantically  at  a  small  veil  of  a  handkerchief,  he  said : 

"Now  Marcy,  it's  no  use  for  us  to  go  over  the  whole 
thing  again.  If  there's  anything  I  can  do  to  make  you 
happy — why  just  don't  hesitate  to  ask.  You  know  I 
don't  want  to  see  you  unhappy,  don't  you  ?" 

She  smiled,  and  after  a  time  gave  a  queer  broken  laugh. 
"Then  you  don't  want  to  see  me  unhappy?" 

"Of  course  not;  you're  too  sweet  and  good." 

"You  think  so?" 

"You  know  I  do." 

"Well "  she  hung  on  to  the  word  before  plunging 

ahead.  "Well,  then,  do  something  for  me — to  help  me — 
to  keep  me  from  being  so  terribly  lonely." 

Her  actions  were  really  puzzling.  But  Vernon  made 
up  his  mind  to  go  directly  to  the  point.  Beating  about 
the  bush  might  break  open  some  hornet's  nest  of  sentimen- 
tality. He  asked  rather  sternly:  "What  do  you  want, 
Marcy?  More  money?" 

She  turned  away.  "Oh,  not  money.  What  does  money 
mean  ?" 

'"Then  what  do  you  want?" 

She  seemed  to  be  undergoing  a  struggle.  He  could  see 
how  the  words  were  unable  to  form  themselves.  Suddenly 
she  drew  her  handkerchief  to  her  face  and  sobbed : 

"I — I  want  a  baby,  Leonard."  Then  by  a  mighty  ef- 
fort she  controlled  herself  and  looked  squarely  at  him. 
"Oh,  Lennie,  if  I  had  a  baby  I  wouldn't  be  so  lonely,  and 
I  could  think  of  you — without  you — having  to  bother 
about  it." 


THE    TAKER  283 

He  jumped  from  his  chair  and  stared  hard  at  her.  At 
the  moment,  he  wondered  if  some  one  had  been  advising  her. 
Yes,  it  was  surely  that,  he  saw,  for  her  own  brain  was  too 
feeble,  too  honest,  perhaps,  to  conceive  such  a  scheme. 

He  shouted,  glaring  at  her,  "What's  your  game, 
Marcy?" 

Only  as  a  tremor  encompassed  her,  horrible  in  its  at- 
tack, did  he  realise  that  from  her  this  was  neither  intrigue 
nor  cunning.  He  knew  her  nature  well  enough  for  that. 

So  he  went  on  more  quietly,  more  gently,  reflecting  that 
he  must  argue  with  her  and  get  her  to  see  how  ridiculous 
was  her  quest. 

"Why,  Marcy,  child,  you  must  think  about  what  you're 
saying.  You're  free  now.  You  can  do  anything  you 
want  to  do.  Anything  you  feel  like.  I'll  see  that  you  have 
money  enough.  You  know  that.  You  can  go  down  to  At- 
lantic City — any  place,  but  if  you  had  a  child "  he 

broke  off  imploringly,  "Oh,  Marcy,  don't  be  so  foolish !" 

She  began  to  sob  now  slowly  but  without  much  control. 

"But,  Lennie,  I  don't  want  to  be  free.  That's  just  it. 
I  want  something  to  own,  to  have  to  take  care  of — to  be 
with  me  all  the  time.  I  want  something  to  protect.  Now, 
it  makes  no  difference  whether  I  am  dead  or  alive.  And," 
she  hesitated,  "I  am  afraid  to  go  on  like  that." 

For  just  a  moment  Vernon  weakened.  It  was  a  strain 
to  see  her  beg  and  cry  like  this.  Then  she  really  would 
give  him  no  trouble.  Her  love  for  him  would  always  pro- 
tect him  from  that.  And  how  beautiful  and  soft  was  her 
little  body.  Good  God,  it  wasn't  easy !  But  supposing — 
supposing — he  married  again,  as  he  intended  to — some 
day,  what  then  ?  Yes ;  then  he  would  have  to  suffer  years 
of  worry  and  trouble  for  just  a  moment  of  weakness  and 
sentiment.  Like  everybody  else. 


284  THE    TAKER 

He  cried  out: 

"No,  Marcy,  life's  too  rotten  a  business  for  anything1 
like  that.  You  don't  understand." 

The  aridity  of  his  soul  she  could  not  understand,  how- 
ever. Arising  from  the  floor  she  clutched  at  his  coat  col- 
lar and  arms. 

"Listen,  Lennie,  please,  please" — she  could  see  how  he 
was  trying  to  shut  his  senses  against  her  plea — "Can't 
you  realise  what  it  will  mean?  You  want  to  be  free.  But 
I  don't.  And  this  will  take  care  of  both  of  us.  Lennie, 
please — please  think — my  way,  won't  you?" 

Even  as  he  angrily  tore  away  from  her,  she  grasped  his 
hand  and  kissed  it  imploringly.  But  he  exclaimed 
angrily : 

"Good  God!  You  don't  seem  to  have  the  least  sense 
about  life  or  anything  else.  You've  been  reading  stories, 
I  guess.  But  in  real  life — things  like  that — aren't  done." 
He  took  hold  of  her  arms,  embraced  her  in  front  of  him. 
"Now  for  God's  sake  try  to  be  a  sensible  little  girl.  And 
don't  make  it  so  hard  for  me." 

He  walked  out  into  the  hall.  Her  tears  and  her  beauti- 
ful pale  face  were  beginning  to  have  their  effect  on  him. 
But  he  saw  a  whole  train  of  unhappiness  stretching  over 
the  years  if  he  gave  in  now. 

In  the  hall  he  waited  a  moment  for  her  to  follow.  When 
she  did  not  come  after  him  he  walked  back  into  the  room 
again,  to  where  she  was  standing  like  some  inanimate 
figure  of  wax. 

"Marcy,"  he  said,  "maybe  I  ought  to  make  it  a  hundred 
and  a  quarter.  That'll  be  six  thousand  dollars  a  year. 
What  do  you  say?" 

He  studied  for  the  effect  of  his  words.  And  then  when 
she  continued  her  frozen  stare  ahead  of  her,  he  said  cas- 


THE    TAKER  285 

ually,  deeming  it  best  to  leave  her  with  this  last  thought 
on  her  memory,  "Now  think  about  it — and  brace  up." 


When  the  door  shut  after  him,  Marcy  sank  onto  the 
floor  near  the  divan  and  for  hours  lay  numb,  inert. 

She  was  crushed  completely. 

All  the  frightful  force  of  love's  demands,  of  heart  dis- 
illusion— the  ferment  of  passion  and  compassion,  battling 
— all  crushed  in  at  the  flimsy  husk  that  had  sheltered  her, 
overwhelming  her  with  a  withering  cross-fire  of  realisa- 
tion. 

Near  midnight,  however,  a  strange  thing  happened. 
Suddenly  the  bitter  suffering  was  erased,  swept  from  her 
mind  as  by  some  magic  broom;  when  she  uttered  terrible 
words  of  self-condemnation,  the  words  were  devoid  of 
meaning;  when  she  repeated  over  and  over  words  of  pity 
for  her  unhappy  plight,  they  were  meaningless — like  the 
animated  puppets  of  a  marionette  play  that  move  and  talk 
but  are  propelled  by  some  hidden  unseen  force. 

The  stupor  passed  off  completely  and  other  thoughts 
came  to  her — thoughts  so  distinct  they  almost  had  form. 
She  shrank  back,  not  frightened  but  happy,  pleased, — 
for  the  thoughts  seemed  to  take  form  and  stand  in  front 
of  her,  beckoning  with  outstretched  arms  and  dulcet 
voices. 

And  Marcy  rose  from  the  floor,  and,  dazed,  yet  with  an 
infinite  content  soothing  her  heart,  walked  out  of  the 
house  and  to  the  drugstore  at  the  end  of  the  block. 

.  .  .  When  she  came  back  to  her  bedroom  she  walked 
firmly  over  to  the  mantel,  placed  on  it  what  she  had  bought 
at  the  drugstore  and  then  took  off  her  hat  and  coat. 

For  a  time  she  sat  at  the  window  and  then  groped  her 


286  THE    TAKER 

way  over  to  the  writing  desk  and  took  out  a  few  sheets  of 
paper. 

It  took  some  effort  to  get  the  pen  to  the  blank  sheet 
before  her: 

"I  guess  I'll  go  now.  It's  not  terrible  and  I'm  not  unhappy 
at  all.  I  just  feel  glad,  honestly  I  do.  I  used  to  want  to 
be  happy  in  a  different  way.  I  used  to  think  when  I  looked 
at  the  birds  sitting  up  in  the  trees  in  front  of  our  house 
that  when  I  grew  up  I'd  just  fly  any  place  I  wanted  to  and 
sing  all  the  time.  I  guess  my  wings  are  cut,  though. 

"Anyway  I'm  not  sad  now.     Honestly  I'm  not." 

Marcy  stopped  her  writing.  Her  heart  was  too  full 
to  give  expression  to  words.  She  could  only  look  out 
through  the  window. 

It  was  one  of  those  moonless  nights  that  absorbs  and 
yet  crystallises  thought. 

A  mist,  full  of  rainbow  colours  but  impenetrable,  began 
to  shroud  everything. 

"How  wonderful  it  is!"  she  thought.  "How  wonder- 
ful!" 

She  relaxed  utterly.  Joyful  tears  trickled  down  from 
her  closed  lids. 

She  saw  a  little  girl  looking  at  birds. 

Then  there  spread  in  front  of  her  a  wide  expanse  of 
fields,  dancing  gaily  in  a  dazzling  sunlight.  The  flash  of 
sun  on  the  horizon  even  blinded  her — but  it  drew  her,  too 
.  .  .  Eternal  happiness  .  .  .  there  .  .  .  eternal  sun- 
shine. 

"I'm  coming  now,"  said  Marcy. 

She  rose  and  walked  over  to  the  bottle  she  had  pur- 
chased at  the  drugstore. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

T)  EMORSE  filled  Vernon  from  the  moment  he  left 
•"•  ^  Marcy's  side.  All  night  she  stood  before  his  eyes, 
a  beautiful,  sensitive,  tender-hearted  child,  begging  him  to 
be  kind  to  her.  He  tried  to  do  several  things  to  get  her  off 
his  mind.  He  called  up  Edna  Mason  at  the  Pranton.  He 
bought  tickets  for  a  musical  comedy  at  the  Globe,  and 
then  at  the  last  minute  called  her  up  and  told  her  busi- 
ness had  detained  him.  Then  deciding  that  he  had  best  go 
anyway,  and  had  only  wanted  to  be  alone,  he  took  a  taxi  to 
the  theatre,  and  was  already  in  the  orange  lighted  lobby 
when  he  realised  he  couldn't  go  in.  He  ended  up  by 
going  to  his  apartment  and  sitting  rigidly  in  a  chair  at 
the  window  and  looking  down  on  to  Broadway  till  all  the 
signs  had  closed  their  blinking  messages  for  the  night. 

It  was  at  about  five  o'clock  the  next  afternoon  that  he 
received  a  telephone  message  from  Mrs.  Ranier. 

"The  woman  wants  to  talk  to  you  on  private  business," 
the  operator  said.  When  he  was  connected  a  tremulous, 
sobbing  voice  cried : 

"Oh,  Mr.  Vernon,  I  am  very  nervous  about  Mrs. — the 
— Mrs. — yes,  she  confided  in  me.  This  is  Mrs.  Ranier 
who  lives  across  the  hall.  I've  tried  to  be  a  friend  to  the 
poor  little  girl.  But  you'd  better  come  right  away.  I've 
knocked  on  the  door  a  dozen  times  and  can't  get  any 
answer.  She  ran  out  about  noon  time  and  I  saw  her  come 
in.  I  know  she  hasn't  left  the  house  since." 

287 


288  THE    TAKER 

In  less  than  fifteen  minutes  Vernon  was  standing  at 
Marcy's  door,  hysterically  shaking  the  knob  and  knock- 
ing, with  Mrs.  Ranier,  in  a  soft  blue  dressing  robe,  crying 
at  his  side  and  holding  on  to  his  arm. 

"Why,  she  couldn't  have  harmed  herself,"  cried  Ver- 
non. "My  darling  little  girl." 

His  face  was  white,  nearly  grey,  the  pupils  of  his  eyes 
were  large  and  staring,  his  mouth  infirm  and  drooping  at 
the  corners.  At  once  he  seemed  to  have  grown  ten  years 
older. 

At  last,  with  a  hysterical  shove,  he  threw  his  whole 
weight  against  the  door  and  it  gave  way. 

Marcy  lay  on  the  floor  in  the  dark  room.  Her  legs 
were  drawn  up  and  twisted;  her  arms  outstretched  in  a 
rigid  curve;  every  feature  of  her  face  distorted  by  the 
same  sinister  instrument. 

On  the  floor  lay  an  empty  bottle  with  a  red  label. 

Vernon  suddenly  stooped  down,  took  the  dead  body  in 
his  arms  and  in  a  hoarse  voice  that  was  more  of  an  im- 
ploring wail,  cried  at  the  lifeless  eyes  and  mouth: 

"What  have  you  done — my  little  Marcy — my  love — my 
sweetheart — my  whole  life!" 

He  went  on  that  way  for  a  long  time,  until  Mrs.  Ranier, 
fearing  he  would  lose  his  mind,  stopped  him,  and  gently 
led  him  across  the  hall  into  her  apartment  and  placed  him 
on  the  sofa  in  the  front  room. 

"You  must  think  of  yourself  a  little,"  she  said  tenderly. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

T  EONARD  left  Mrs.  Ranier's  apartment  at  five 
•*— ^  o'clock  in  the  morning.  All  night  he  mourned  his 
loss.  His  suffering  was  intense  and  the  little  woman  did 
all  she  could  think  of  to  ease  him.  She  told  him  how  it 
was  only  Fate  that  had  control  of  life,  and  that  he  mustn't 
think  he  was  to  blame. 

But  he  only  threw  out  his  arms  and  in  one  outburst 
after  another  of  hysterical  remorse,  cried: 

"Oh,  my  poor  little  darling — my  little  darling — if  I 
had  only  known  I" 

And  then  he  would  moan  for  some  time  after — "She's 
gone  from  me.  Oh,  what  will  I  do?" 

Never  in  all  the  days  of  Marcy's  pathetically  short  life 
had  he  recognised  the  wealth  of  beauty  in  soul  and  body 
that  he  saw  now  was  taken  from  him  forever. 

When  Mrs.  Ranier  pushed  him  out  into  the  street,  after 
he  had  mumbled  that  they  must  meet  again,  Leonard  felt 
as  if  he  were  stepping  out  into  a  world  that  held  forth 
nothing  but  emptiness.  The  little  middle-aged  woman's 
affectionate  solacing  had  only  been  another  horror. 

It  was  a  clear  morning,  just  between  night  and  day 
when  the  darkness  was  creeping  down  the  long  street,  like 
some  frightened  marauder.  Without  fog  or  dampness, 
there  was  still  a  wet  glistening  surface  on  the  roofs  and 
pavements,  left  over  from  a  fine,  thin  rain  that  had  fallen 
during  the  night. 

289 


290  THE    TAKER 

For  some  time  he  stood  in  front  of  the  apartment  look- 
ing toward  the  river,  lost  in  a  dull  stupor. 

Then  a  taxi-cab  darted  into  the  street  from  Riverside 
Drive  and  he  stopped  it  and  got  inside.  When  the  driver 
opened  the  door  before  starting  and  questioned  him,  it 
took  some  time  for  him  to  understand  what  was  wanted. 
Then  he  said: 

"Go  on — go  on — anywhere." 

The  man  leaned  back  on  his  seat  with  the  evident  under- 
standing that  he  would  have  trouble  with  his  fare,  while 
Leonard  sat  back  into  the  corner,  crushing  against  the 
cushions,  inert  and  feebly  trying  to  shut  out  all  the  agon- 
ising thoughts  that  flew  to  his  mind. 

But  as  the  rattling  vehicle  swung  along,  dis j  ointedly, 
he  couldn't  keep  from  reviewing  the  entire  situation. 

It  was  all  somewhat  hazy  though  he  could  peer  into  the 
future  well  enough  to  see  its  outlines — as  one  views  a 
statue  through  a  cloth  covering. 

And  all  he  could  see  was  future  loneliness. 

Visions  of  to-morrow  confronted  him  relentlessly,  like 
wax  figures  endowed  with  life,  parading  before  his  imagi- 
nation. 

Again  and  again  he  thought: 

"Oh,  why  didn't  I  know?    I  can't  live  without  her." 

Then  the  chauffeur  turned  and  swung  down  Broadway, 
which  was  now  beginning  to  take  on  again  its  early-morn- 
ing life.  And  mechanically  Vernon  looked  out  of  the  cab 
window  and  began  reading  the  signs : 

"JOHNSON  AND  MATTHEWS,  Florists,"  "I.  MAYER, 
Clothier  and  Men's  Furnishings,"  "THE  JEWEL  CANDY 
STORE." 

He  remembered  how  Marcy  had  looked  up  into  his  eyes 
and  begged  him  to  be  kind  to  her. 


THE    TAKER  291 

A  man  groped  his  way  out  of  an  apartment  house, 
drunk,  walked  a  few  steps,  than  sunk  down  into  a  vesti- 
bule. 

"At  least  he  doesn't  know  what's  happening,"  thought 
Leonard.  "And  I  do.  Oh,  my  God,  I  do !" 

Why  was  it  that  people  could  get  drunk,  carouse,  steal, 
cheat — mistreat  life  brutally  and  yet  never  bring  any 
suffering  on  themselves ;  while  he,  so  careful  to  do  what 
was  always  honest  and  fair,  was  continually  suffering  loss 
and  disappointment? 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

LEONARD  came  onto  many  new  philosophies  during 
the  next  days,  seeking  out  all  who  would  listen  to  him 
and  his  story  of  woe  and  misfortune.  And  he  was  sur- 
prised, indeed,  to  realise  how  unsympathetic  people  were 
and  how  little  they  took  his  troubles  to  heart,  after  they 
had  rid  themselves  of  their  own  particular  worriment  and 
ideas  about  life. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  found,  with  surprise, 
that  nearly  every  one  had  some  kind  of  faith  or  creed  that 
pacified  them  and  gave  them  strength  to  go  on. 

And  at  last,  over  a  week  after  Marcy's  death,  he  came 
to  believe,  mostly  through  a  man  he  had  been  referred  to 
by  a  customer  from  Ft.  Wayne,  Indiana,  and  partly  by 
reading,  that  one  thing  was  definite  and  certain.  It  was 
this :  His  happiness  in  life  had  been  at  the  mercy  of  an- 
other. He  had  been  a  slave.  And  God  had  created  man 
to  be  his  own  master. 

After  that  came  another  problem  which  he  pondered 
over  continually  at  the  office  or  in  his  new  rooms  at  the 
Claridgc. 

God!    Who — what — was  God? 

Which  took  him  some  few  days  of  further  analysis  and 
delving.  And  he  wouldn't  let  up.  Somehow  he  found 
that  a  definite  understanding  of  life  was  necessary  be- 
fore he  could  go  on.  Otherwise  the  futility  of  his  trying 
to  live  was  too  apparent. 

Strangely  he  had  always  talked  about  God,  and  felt  he 

292 


THE    TAKER  293 

must  do  right  because  God  was  watching.  Yet  he  had 
never  questioned  what  God  meant  or  was — until  now.  Of 
course  times  were  too  modern  to  think  of  accepting  the 
religious  interpretation  of  his  mother.  That  was  too  old- 
fashioned  and  lacking  in  modern  development. 

It  was  really  bewildering.  As  the  man  had  said,  God 
was  back  of  everything.  Of  course  there  was  proof  of 
creation  all  about — flowers,  forests,  people.  And  every 
one  talked  of  God  and  felt  that  on  Him  depended  their 
life.  There  must  be  a  God  who  watched  over  him;  per- 
haps who  knew  his  suffering.  Perhaps  it  was  as  the  man 
had  said — "God  is  a  principle — the  first  principle  of  life." 

And  there  he  stopped,  for  a  few  more  days. 

If  God  was  the  principle  of  life,  the  scheme  of  creation, 
why  had  he  been  allowed  to  suffer  so  and  make  so  many 
mistakes?  He  began  to  believe  a  little  more  what  had  been 
told  him.  The  truth  was  that  he  was  created  by  this 
principle,  and  had  not  accepted  its  creed.  He,  in  him- 
self, was  the  perfect  thing — since  God  had  made  him  per- 
fect, made  him  in  His  own  image.  He  could  only  control 
the  one  perfect  being  then — his  own.  He,  himself,  was 
God,  and  perfect  unto  himself.  And  he  could  do  no  wrong 
— unless  he  worshipped — some  other  god — some  other  be- 
ing than  his  own.  One  could  only  control  one's  own  life. 
And  he  had  tried  to  control  another's.  She,  or  her  mind, 
which  was  the  only  perfection — he  had  worshipped,  and 
tried  to  control.  While  all  the  time  she  was  living  in  her 
own  world.  They  really  had  nothing  to  do  with  each 
other. 

Thoughts  like  this  came  to  be  part  of  Vernon's  days 
now.  He  saw  he  must  solve  the  riddle  before  life  would 
ever  again  have  value  for  him. 

Then  came  another  stumbling  block. 


294  THE    TAKER 

He  had  been  happy  with  IVlarcy.  And  suddenly  this 
was  all  taken  away  from  him,  when  he  had  wanted  it 
otherwise.  Was  it  really  as  the  man  had  told  him — that 
he  had  been  allowing  himself  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  the 
physical,  the  material — which  had  no  life? 

Had  God  seen  fit  to  prove  to  him  that  he,  Leonard  Ver- 
non,  was  really  idolatrous,  worshipping  false  gods,  when 
he  should  have  been  worshipping  himself? 

The  man  who  told  him  this  had  a  long,  thin  face,  but 
as  he  talked  his  eyes  lit  up  and  his  countenance  became 
wreathed  in  a  peaceful  smile.  And  he  seemed  to  have 
proof  for  everything  he  said  and  was  so  emphatic  about  it. 

Vernon  sought  him  out  again.  In  fact  he  could  hardly 
wait  till  the  elevator  let  him  off  at  the  twelfth  floor  in  the 
building  where  the  man  had  his  little  office  and  gave  les- 
sons in  "Mental  Healing." 

"I  was  just  passing,"  said  Leonard,  "and  thought  I 
would  drop  in  and  pay  you  a  little  visit." 

He  was  motioned  to  a  seat  and  there  seemed  real  joy 
on  the  man's  face  as  he  said:  "I'm  so  glad  you've  come. 
I've  been  thinking  a  lot  about  you."  Then  he  added, 
"You're  looking  much  better,  too." 

"Yes — I — I  believe  I  am — getting  hold  of  something.  I 
seem  to  feel — that  there  is  a  sort  of — background  to  life 
that  I  never  felt  before." 

The  man's  eyes  fired  again.  "Fine !"  came  the  exclama- 
tion. Then  he  handed  Leonard  a  Bible  and  asked  him  to 
read  a  passage  on  one  of  its  pages.  As  if  to  give  more 
significance  to  the  act,  he  sat  back  while  Leonard  was  al- 
lowed to  find  the  page  for  himself. 

And  Leonard  read  therein  how  one  must  not  worship 
false  gods,  or  the  physical  manifestations  that  trod  the 
earth's  soil.  Somehow  the  truth  of  what  had  been  troub- 


THE    TAKER  295 

ling  him  was  revealed.  And  the  words  he  read  were  a 
direct  explanation  of  what  God  was.  God  was — as  he  had 
been  told  before — the  Spirit  of  him — Leonard  Vernon. 
Leonard  Vernon — in  spirit — was  God. 

They  talked  for  over  an  hour  in  the  little  office-like 
room.  When  Leonard  rose  to  leave  the  man  said: 

"My  friend,  you've  been  trying  to  run  your  own  life. 
Now,  why  not  accept  what  is  the  only  perfect  truth  and 
be  happy?" 

Leonard  felt  much  better  and  happier  as  he  shot  down 
with  the  elevator  and  out  into  the  sunlight  of  Fifth  Ave- 
nue. He  saw  that  he  or  rather  the  spirit  of  himself  was 
a  perfect  thing  wrought  by  an  All-knowing  and  wise  Prin- 
ciple that  could  make  nothing  wrong.  Therefore,  he  could 
do  no  wrong.  Hereafter  he  would  renounce  all  allegiance 
to  the  physical  expression  of  things — just  know  that  he 
was  part  of  the  great  Principle  that  gave  and  governed  all 
life  and  be  satisfied.  Yes,  he  was  learning — at  forty. 

But  what  difference  did  age  make,  if  it  were  only  the 
spirit — the  mental  life  that  was  important?  One  could 
shrink  up  from  age  and  still  be  young  and  content — if  the 
mind  did  not  go  worshipping  other  creeds — seeking  in 
physical  forests  where  it  would  be  lost  and  had  no  busi- 
ness to  wander.  What  the  mind  wanted,  the  mind  could 
have. 

That  was  easy. 

Since  it  regulated  its  own  dreams. 

To  thought,  all  manner  of  thought  was  possible,  since 
one  only  had  to  think  to  obtain.  And  he  had  gone  for 
years  hoping  that  Chance  and  Opportunity  and  Circum- 
stance would  fix  things  so  he  could  be  happy.  When  it 
was  all  within  his  power  in  the  instant. 


296  THE    TAKER 

How  truly  wonderful !  A  life  organised  in  such  a  man- 
ner could  have  no  mishap  or  misery. 

What  fools  people  were,  anyway — worshipping  youth 
or  the  material  expression  of  youth — when  youth  dried 
up  and  died.  Of  course  he  had  been  worshipping  a  false 
god.  He  had  been  an  idolater.  He  should  have  worship- 
ped himself.  He  and  God  were  one. 

So  Leonard  Vernon  grew  more  cheerful.  With  his  new 
understanding  he  began  to  eat  again  and  sleep  and  go  to 
the  office  and  to  the  theatre  and  talk  to  Whittimore  about 
the  business. 

And  he  did  not  want  to  go  out  in  the  company  of 
others. 

He  was  such  good  company  for  himself,  now.  Always 
he  had  something  to  think  about  and  work  out — a  delight- 
ful companion  for  himself. 

He  had  never  been  able  to  do  this  before  in  all  his  life. 

He  had  always  been  dependent  upon  others — Jennie, 
Mabel — Marcy. 

What  a  fool  he  had  been ! 

One  evening,  just  as  they  were  leaving  the  office,  he 
told  Whittimore  about  his  theories.  He  related,  too,  what 
conclusions  he  had  come  to,  and  how  he  was  no  longer 
obedient  to  the  capriciousness  of  chance.  He  told  how  he 
ruled  his  days  now,  his  desires,  his  destiny.  And  how 
easy  it  was,  all  resting  simply  in  one's  mental  understand- 
ing of  what  life  really  was.  "You  know,"  he  said,  "now, 
I  understand  what  has  been  wrong  with  me  my  whole  life." 

But  Whittimore,  he  found,  obtained  his  happiness  by 
a  process  of  simplification,  or  elimination,  which  could 
never  satisfy  any  thinking  person.  That  was  more  like  a 
child's  way  of  life — without  the  labor  of  philosophy.  And 
he  told  Vernon  that  his  search  was  like  people  who  never 


THE    TAKER  297! 

hunted  for  facts,  but  always  for  some  confirmation  of  a 
prejudice. 

"You  are  like  I  used  to  be,  Vernon,"  he  said.  "It  took 
me  a  long  time  to  discover  that  I  was  only  mimicking  life, 
believing  myself  intelligent  about  things,  when  in  reality 
I  was  only  thinking  that  I  thought.  I  was  a  fake  philoso- 
pher." He  laughed  as  if  he  were  ashamed  of  his  past 
stupidity,  then  went  on:  "And  of  course  the  sad  part  of 
it  all  was  that  whenever  I  blundered,  I  had  to  pay  the 
same  price  as  the  vicious.  Yes,"  he  went  on,  "I,  like  you, 
had  the  wrong  idea.  I  had  the  bachelor's  fear  of  making 
things  fixed.  I  was  always  sounding  the  depths  of  my  af- 
fections. I  used  to  look  at  love  as  if  it  were  a  sort  of  ocean 
into  which  I  could  dive  and  get  that  wonderful  afterglow — 
peace,  contentment,  thrilling  happiness.'* 

Leonard  became  eager  to  have  him  go  on.  "How  about 
now?"  he  asked. 

"Well,  I've  since  found  out  that  love  is  a  sort  of  taber- 
nacle, where  you  house  your  thoughts — a  roof  over  your 
head  if  you  are  willing  to  live  under  it.  You  don't  exult, 
but  neither  are  you  exposed  to  the  elements."  Looking 
at  Vernon,  he  pointed  out:  "Maybe  that's  your  trouble. 
You  never  want  to  go  inside  and  you  don't  want  to  stay 
outside." 

"I've  been  inside  all  my  life.  That's  the  trouble,"  Leon- 
ard objected. 

Whittimore  smiled.  "Maybe  that's  been  your  trouble. 
When  you  do  go  inside,  you  leave  the  door  open,  so  you 
can  get  out  quickly.  And  the  elements  get  you  just  the 
same.  You  see  what  I  mean?"  he  asked. 

While  Leonard  listened  earnestly,  Whittimore  went  on 
to  tell  him  that  all  this  analysing  was  a  mistake. 

"You  see,  you  have  to  work  too  hard  to  get  anything," 


298  THE    TAKER 

he  said.  "I'm  not  going  to  bother  my  head  with  all  this 
figuring  out  what  life  means.  I  used  to  be  that  way  and 
I  learned  my  lesson.  It's  no  use." 

Vernon  interjected:  "You  don't  know  what  a  revela- 
tion it  is,  Whittimore !" 

"My  God!  I'm  afraid  there  is  some  sort  of  after-life. 
And  if  there  is,  I  certainly  don't  want  to  learn  about  it  in 
this  existence.  Think  what  a  contemplation  that  would 
be — having  to  live  all  over  again  what  we've  been  through 
once." 

**You're  making  fun  of  it,"  Vernon  exclaimed  restlessly. 
"You  don't  understand." 

"I  believe  I  understand  enough.  It's  no  use  to  be  seri- 
ous over  anything  except  the  very  little  things.  And  they 
don't  matter.  The  big  things  are  too  big  to  be  serious 
over,  and  beyond  any  control  of  ours,  anyway.  So  worry- 
ing about  them  would  make  no  difference.  That's  my 
philosophy.  All  I  want  to  be  is  happy." 

"But  that's  all  I  want,  too.  Only  I  can't  accept  any- 
thing so  ignorantly." 

It  was  Whittimore's  turn  to  look  at  his  friend  in  a  sur- 
prised way:  "Now,  just  what  difference  can  it  make?"  he 
argued.  "We  both  arrive  at  the  same  result — content- 
ment. And  you  have  to  work  so  hard  for  it."  Then  an- 
other thought  came  to  him.  "And  I  can  have  so  much 
more  fun  than  you  can,  too,  Vernon."  There  was  a  sly 
sparkle  in  his  eyes.  "You  see,  women  are  pretty  good 
company.  Now,  with  all  this — this  self-abnegation  of 
yours,  you'll  have  to  cut  them  out,  won't  you?  Or  else 
see  them  without  any  emotion,  whatever — which  would  be 
just  lying  to  yourself  and  absolutely  physical  then." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  At  last  Vernon  faltered: 
"Well,  you're  not  telling  me  anything  new.  I've  been  a 


THE    TAKER  299 

slave  to  the  material  all  my  life.  And  it  never  was  the 
complete  thing  for  me." 

However,  it  was  an  angle  that  required  investigation. 
If  he  were  true  to  his  new  understanding,  then  being  with 
the  opposite  sex  would  and  could  never  mean  anything 
more  to  him.  He  would  have  to  go  through  life  without 
that  sort  of  emotion — the  emotion  that  comes  of  love, 
physical  love.  In  other  words  he  must  never  recognise 
material  beauty  any  more.  That  would  not  be  easy.  What 
else  was  there  to  be  interested  in? 

What  would  life  mean — living  like  that?  Emotion  and 
life  were  synonymous. 

He  must  find  some  other  philosophy — something  which 
could  have  the  spiritual  in  it  and  yet  permit  the  recog- 
nition of  the  material  beauty  on  earth.  That's  what 
beauty  was  put  on  earth  for. 

And  so  Leonard  came  on  to  many  more  theories  and 
schemes  of  life.  It  became  a  habit  with  him  to  entice 
others  into  conversation  along  these  lines.  He  ran  the 
gamut  from  the  elevator  man  to  the  stenographer. 

All  had  been  disappointed  in  some  way  or  another,  and 
yet  were  living  on. 

And  more  and  more  he  found  how  wrong  he  had  been 
to  think  that  one  could  go  on  just  living  without  examin- 
ing the  facts  of  life.  He  always  had  been  content  to  know 
that  there  was  some  sort  of  explanation  of  life  which  took 
care  of  itself.  He  had  felt  that  to  stay  on  the  safe  side 
was  simply  a  question  of  not  doing  a  wrong  that  could  be 
pointed  out  to  his  own  conscience.  He  must  always  escape 
suffering  the  retribution  in  mental  agony  that  comes 
to  the  guilty.  He  remembered  now  how  many  times  he  had 
hesitated  to  do  what  seemed  wrong,  until  he  had  found  a 
reason  that  he  could  explain  to  his  own  mind  for  so  doing. 


300 

Anyhow,  everybody  seemed  to  join  one  or  another  of 
these  armies  of  life-analysers  at  their  first  disappointment. 

Some  days  later,  the  chemist  from  the  Hastings  factory 
came  in  and  lunched  with  him  at  the  Astor.  It  took  Ver- 
non  no  longer  than  fifteen  minutes  after  the  waiter  had 
taken  their  order,  to  get  at  the  theories  of  his  spectacled- 
eyed  employee. 

"You  see,  Mr.  Vernon,  we  have  a  theory  of  anti-bodies, 
like  the  proven  theory  of  anti-toxins,  now  haven't  we? 
Well,  just  so  is  there  a  scheme  of  anti-souls — where  every- 
body is  a  being  waiting  for  its  other  being,  or  rather  soul, 
to  make  it  complete.  In  other  words,  one  can  only  be- 
come a  complete  entity  through  its  soul  finding  its  other 
half."  He  explained  further  that  it  took  tremendous  un- 
derstanding on  the  spiritual  plane  to  unite  these  anti-souls 
and  fix  them  forever  after. 

The  conversation  lasted  until  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, and  the  little  man  went  to  a  bewildering  depth  into 
all  the  things  that  had  so  worried  Leonard. 

"There  is  an  after  life  and  a  before  life  on  earth,"  he 
said.  "Or,  better,  there  is  no  death.  And  no  one  could 
ever  stay  departed  unless  we  were  not  matched  with 
them  in  soul-spirit  and  did  not  seek  them  after  the  death 
of  their  material  bodies."  It  was  amazing  indeed. 

There  was  a  scheme  of  reincarnation,  Leonard  learned, 
definitely  proven,  which  he  had  heard  so  much  about  and 
paid  so  little  attention  to.  But  it  was  a  fact  that  he, 
Leonard  Vernon,  the  millionaire,  had  had  a  previous  life 
and  pleasures  and  sorrows  utterly  away  from  the  glass 
industry.  And  he  would  never  really  die. 

"Why,  Mr.  Vernon,"  the  man  went  on  seriously,  "you, 
can  disassociate  yourself  if  you  want,  from  all  this  ma- 


THE    TAKER  301 

terial  life,  and  become  a  spectator  away  and  above  this 
earthly  turmoil." 

"Where  do  these  people  live?"  Leonard  asked.  It 
seemed  he  had  caught  the  man  at  his  own  game. 

"There  are  spiritual  cities  in  amongst  our  own  cities, 
where  the  highest  development  of  vibration  is  reached — 
cities  peopled  with  these  spirit  persons  above  and  through 
New  York  and  Chicago  and  Philadelphia.  It  is  only  the 
developed  seekers,  however,  who  have  communion  with 
them,  people  who  have  attained  the  secret  of  vibrating  in 
communion  with  these  spirits." 

The  little  man  ended  up  by  saying  in  a  very  authorita- 
tive manner: 

"I  want  to  tell  you,  Mr.  Vernon,  that  sooner  or  later 
the  world  will  accept  this  new  idea.  They  will  learn  why 
geniuses  are  born  and  why  others  are  stupid.  And  they 
will  not  be  so  scared  of  this  horrifying  physical  life.  It 
is  surely  destined  to  be  the  great  idea  of  this  century, 
even  as  the  idea  of  evolution  transformed  the  conceptions 
of  the  last  century.  If  this  re-birth  of  the  soul  is  not 
a  vital  truth,  then  the  idea  of  reincarnation  could  not 
have  endured  for  so  many  thousands  of  years,  and  at- 
tracted and  held  some  seven  hundred  millions  of  human 
beings.  I  know,"  he  went  on,  "it  won't  be  so  long  before 
we  accept  this  truth  just  as  we  do  now  the  law  of  gravity." 

And  then  he  spoke  in  phrases  that  left  Leonard  com- 
pletely at  sea.  He  told  how  the  Christian  Master  ap- 
proached the  ancient  city  of  Caesarea  Philippi,  in  Pales- 
tine, nestling  on  the  slopes  of  Mount  Hermon,  and  asked 
the  disciples  if  they  knew  who  He  was.  And  He  had  asked 
this  because  His  disciples  had  thought  Him  so  many  dif- 
ferent persons — John  the  Baptist,  who  had  been  beheaded, 
Jeremiah,  Elias,  and  others. 


302  THE    TAKER 

Then  came  legends  sung  in  the  Sagas  of  the  Northmen 
and  spread  with  the  legends  of  the  Gauls ;  the  mystic  lore 
of  the  Druids ;  stories  of  the  Gnostics,  the  Neo-Platonists. 

Leonard  could  hardly  get  away  from  him. 

But  somehow  Leonard  left  him  with  a  feeling  that  the 
anti-body,  somehow  or  other,  had  a  certain  value,  if  not 
exactly  in  the  manner  presented  to  him. 

Wasn't  it  true  that  people,  men  and  women,  were  only 
really  complete  individuals,  mentally  and  physically,  when 
they  found  their  mates? 

Look  at  himself! 

Wasn't  he  only  really  half  a  being? 

And  hadn't  he  been  searching  all  his  life — for  his  other 
half?  Without  knowing  it,  he  had  been  at  the  secret  of 
his  trouble  for  years.  Companionship  and  sympathy  was 
life.  And  that  could  only  come — from  some  one  else — the 
anti-soul.  People  who  were  then  happily  completed  did 
not  have  to  seek  any  longer.  They  were  finished  with  their 
work.  They  were  content,  which  proved  the  fact. 

The  natural  law  was  right  and  helped  to  prove  this, 
too.  God  had  given  sex  these  halves  and  given  each  an 
individual  beauty,  attractive  to  the  other  half.  He  had 
been  right  in  sensing  all  his  life  the  fact  that  his  other 
part  was  contained  in  the  soul  of  some  beautiful  young 
woman.  And  he  had  been  wanting  to  fool  himself  by  mak- 
ing this  a  product  of  his  imagination  when  the  thing  was 
really — tangible — so  far  as  a  soul  could  be. 

All  this  deduction  took  place  in  Leonard's  mind  on  the 
evening  of  the  Tuesday  that  he  had  lunched  with  his  chem- 
ist. 

Until  Friday,  Leonard  spent  the  time  in  talking  to 
others,  as  if  he  believed  one  or  all  of  these  different 


THE    TAKER  303 

schemes,  as  if  he  had  fathomed  the  mysteries  of  this  spirit- 
ual life. 

Also,  he  noticed  that  talking  about  these  psychic  mys- 
teries gave  him  a  certain  degree  of  importance. 

Until  Friday  came,  when  thoughts  of  Marcy  and  how 
near  she  had  come  to  completing  his  life,  troubled  him 
more  than  ever.  Through  the  columns  of  "The  World," 
he  sought  out  a  spiritualistic  healer,  Madame  Eloise,  who 
held  forth  on  Seventh  Avenue  near  Forty-seventh  Street. 
He  read  that  hers  was  the  power  to  dip  into  the  spiritual 
cities  and  bring  out  the  lost  one  in  thought  and  voice. 
But  his  determination  faltered  as  he  wended  his  way 
through  a  long  narrow  hall  that  went  back  for  a  hundred 
feet  or  more  before  a  series  of  steps  led  him  to  the  "Heal- 
er's" residence. 

It  was  a  weird  few  minutes  for  him.  Immediately  on 
entering  the  stuffy  room,  he  became  hot  and  nervous. 
There  was  hardly  a  vacant  space  where  his  eyes  could  rest. 
Faded  pictures  of  saints,  painted  upon  parched-looking 
deerskins,  crowded  upon  figures  laboriously  wrought  in 
wood  that  pictured  the  crucified  Nazarene,  and  votive 
offerings  in  dull,  tarnished  silver  were  spread  out  care- 
lessly on  a  tapestry-covered  table  before  an  indentation  in 
the  wall  masquerading  as  a  shrine. 

He  held  on  to  his  seat  in  the  dimly  lighted  room  until 
the  Madame  entered,  a  fat  waddling  woman  with  a 
strangely  bored  expression  on  her  face. 

Then  he  was  about  to  rise,  but  the  woman  stopped  him, 
saying: 

"A  little  coloured  girl  named  Nanny  will  put  us  in  com- 
munion with  'the  other  side.' ' 

Leonard's  throat  burned  with  dryness  as  he  at  last  ad- 
mitted that  he  would  like  to  speak  with  Marcy. 


304  THE    TAKER 

It  seemed  only  an  instant  when  a  thin  piping  voice  said : 

"Everything  is  well  and  I  am  happy  and  always  with 
you." 

With  a  cold  perspiration  blinding  him,  Leonard  threw 
a  bill  to  the  woman  and  ran  from  the  place. 

After  that  Leonard  closed  his  mind  to  the  whole  tribe 
of  esoteric  cult  that  had  touched  him — astrological,  Rosi- 
crucian,  spiritualistic,  neo-alchemy. 

Of  what  good  was  it,  even  if  true,  to  converse  with 
Marcy  in  spirit,  when  he  would  give  ten  years  of  his  life 
to  be  able  just  to  kiss  her  wonderful  lips? 

He  was  lonelier  than  ever.    And  filled  with  regret. 

He  had  really  learned  too  much  about  the  mysteries  of 
life. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

A  MONTH    after    Marcy's    death,    Vernon    obliged 
Whittimore  by  calling  up  Edna  Mason,  who  for  over 
two  weeks  had  been  entertaining  Mrs.  Bellamy  and  her 
beautiful  daughter,  Charline. 

He  had  himself  well  in  hand,  too.  Deep  in  him  he  felt 
that  here  perhaps  was  the  fate  awaiting  him  that  he  had 
pictured.  However,  it  was  not  easy  to  subdue  the  memory 
of  Marcy.  He  reflected  continuously,  as  he  went  up  in 
the  mirrored  elevator,  how  she  had  been  with  him  on  his 
last  visit. 

Miss  Mason  greeted  him  warmly  and  then  introduced 
him  to  Mrs.  Bellamy,  whom  he  found  as  a  charming,  sym- 
pathetic woman,  somewhere  near  forty.  From  the  moment 
he  took  her  hand,  this  woman,  so  kind  and  gracious,  an 
ideal  sort  of  mother,  beamed  on  him,  and  he  saw  that  she 
liked  and  admired  him. 

But  Charline  attracted  him  from  the  moment  she  came 
in  the  room.  A  tall,  fair,  beautiful  young  girl,  with  all 
the  full  development  of  Marcy  and  hair  of  the  most  lus- 
trous golden  brown  he  had  ever  seen.  The  moment  he 
touched  her  gentle  flesh,  he  saw  that  she  was  the  waiting 
one — there  was  a  tightening  of  the  fibres  of  his  heart — 
strange  spasms  shot  through  him  holding  him  taut. 

It  was  only  when  they  sat  down  and  indulged  in  con- 
versation which  he  could  hardly  follow  for  looking  at 
her,  that  he  saw  that  her  eyes  were  not  quite  as  soft  and 
gentle  in  their  message  as  were  Marcy's,  but  were  every 
bit  as  inviting. 

305 


306  THE    TAKER 

She  was  very  friendly,  too.  In  fact,  all  three  women 
seemed  bent  on  being  kind  to  him. 

"I  just  ran  over,"  said  Leonard,  with  a  sweeping 
elance,  that  started  and  finished  with  Charline,  "to  see 

o 

Miss  Mason's  charming  visitors." 

Though  Edna  disappointed  him  a  little  when  she  said 
to  Mrs.  Bellamy : 

"I've  so  wanted  Mr.  Vernon  to  meet  you,  Dehlia,  He 
is  New  York's  most  charming  man." 

But  they  talked  on  through  a  variety  of  subjects  that 
never  wandered  very  far  from  polite  commonplaceness, 
until  Leonard  saw  that  it  would  be  clever  to  abruptly 
leave. 

So  he  shook  hands,  first  with  Edna  and  then  with  Mrs. 
Bellamy.  When  he  took  the  hand  of  Charline  he  looked 
deep  in  her  eyes.  It  took  all  the  manacles  of  his  experi- 
ence to  make  him  understand  that  silence  was  far  better 
at  the  moment  than  the  sweetest  greeting  he  could  give 
her. 

He  left  the  apartment,  feeling  as  if  the  world  had 
suddenly  offered  to  him  the  prize  he  had  waited  for. 

When  he  entered  his  bath  before  dinner  he  was  more 
alive  and  had  a  wealth  of  vitality  and  energy  that  bewil- 
dered him.  When  he  closed  his  bathroom  door  the  sensa- 
tion of  being  so  fresh  and  supple  went  to  his  head.  He  was 
like  an  athlete  who  had  just  finished  some  victorious  race. 
He  stripped  off  his  clothes,  taking  dance  steps  as  he  un- 
dressed. 

It  was  as  if  this  Charline  would  dramatise  for  him  all 
the  ambitions  of  his  lost  youth.  He  was  flooded  with  the 
ecstasy  of  it. 

Deciding  that  he  would  choose  Delmonico's,  rather 
than  stay  at  the  Claridge,  he  finished  his  dressing  and 


THE    TAKER  307 

walked  up  to  Forty-fifth  Street.  It  was  delicious  even  to 
walk,  and  he  swung  along  buoyantly,  young,  fluttering 
with  anticipated  emotion. 

At  Fifth  Avenue,  he  stopped  before  crossing  just  to 
drink  in  the  glory  of  it  all.  Everything  had  an  unnatural 
attractiveness.  The  fading  daylight  had  a  softness,  as  it 
lit  up  the  streets  and  windows,  as  if  it  had  been  filtered 
through  soft  glass,  and  was  caressing  only  its  favourites. 
Everybody  that  passed  him  had  a  luminous  joy  in  their 
eyes. 

How  different  the  past  seemed,  too.  Now  he  could 
look  at  all  the  past — misfortunes,  as  one  peers  through 
the  small  end  of  an  opera-glass.  The  importance  of 
things  that  formerly  had  so  controlled  him,  he  could  now 
shove  away,  until  their  definiteness,  though  still  with  the 
same  detail,  was  too  far  away  to  even  bother  him  again. 
In  fact,  he  could  dare  to  exteriorise  for  the  first  time,  a 
Leonard  Vernon  free  from  all  barriers  to  happiness — and 
much  more  clever  than  the  old  one. 

He  made  his  way  to  the  entrance  of  the  restaurant. 

But  even  at  dinner  he  was  so  ecstatic  he  could  hardly 
finish  his  meal. 

He  reflected  over  what  a  beautiful  name  the  child  had. 
Charline.  He  could  already  see  her  as  his  wife.  She  had 
manner,  poise,  cleverness — everything.  And  such  beauty ! 
And  what  a  wonderful,  graceful  body ! 

Over  his  demi-tasse  and  on  the  back  of  his  menu  card, 
oblivious  to  the  orchestra  or  the  people  around  him,  he 
began  a  poem  that  was  only  finished  at  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  as  he  paced  his  room  in  his  pajamas,  look- 
ing out  over  the  darkened  signs  of  Broadway. 

From  the  multitude  of  scribbled  papers,  he  made  out 
the  following: 


308  THE    TAKER 

"The  city  lies  between  us,  dear, 
Street  after  street, 

And  hosts  of  gray  mortar  and  dull  concrete 
Separate  us,  like  mountainous  walls 
Impenetrable. 
Yet  I  find  your  beauteous  face  before  me. 

"The  city  lies  between  us,  dear, 
My  eyes  o'erlook 

A  hundred  thousand  restless,  moving  things, 
Where  as  many  destinies  are  being  woven 
By  the  Mystic  Hand. 
Yet  I  find  my  wandering  spirit  is  at  rest." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  mailing  it  when  he  saw  that  it 
would  be  much  more  effective  if  he  should  read  it  in  a  soft, 
well-modulated  voice. 

Leonard's  sleep  that  night  was  the  most  satisfying  he 
had  had  in  many  months.  When  he  awoke  in  the  morn- 
ing he  could  not  help  remarking  to  himself  how  fresh  he 
looked  and  how  clear  were  his  eyes.  And  during  the  day 
he  took  especial  care  with  his  appearance.  After  shav- 
ing he  used  for  the  first  time  a  dark  flesh-coloured  talcum, 
which  a  druggist  had  persuaded  him  gave  a  more  healthy 
appearance  to  the  skin,  and  just  after  lunch,  attracted  by 
a  sign  in  a  drugstore  across  from  the  hotel,  he  entered 
and  purchased  a  vial  of  an  imported  brilliantine,  which 
"gave  the  hair  a  natural  and  youthful  lustre." 

He  called  at  the  Pranton  at  tea-time.  Edna  and  Char- 
line,  he  found,  were  out  for  a  walk  in  the  park  and  had 
not  yet  returned.  However,  he  held  out  as  long  as  he 
could,  answering  nearly  in  monosyllables  the  conversation 
which  Mrs.  Bellamy  was  amazed  to  find  was  boring  him. 

At  last  he  remarked :  "I  hope  Charline — your  daughter 


THE    TAKER  309 

— returns  before  I  go.  You  know,  I  am  quite  enamoured 
with  her,  Mrs.  Bellamy." 

Indeed,  he  was  disappointed  to  find  this  did  not  bring 
her  the  pleasure  he  anticipated.  Somehow  he  noticed 
a  queer  drooping  of  the  woman's  eyes  and  mouth  as  she 
replied:  "Yes,  Charline  is  an  unusual  little  person." 

"I  am  sure  she  is,"  he  added  exultantly,  so  that  she 
would  be  sure  beyond  a  doubt  of  his  feelings. 

Then,  in  the  hall,  came  a  slamming  of  the  elevator 
door  and  Charline,  enveloped  in  a  long  blue  coat  thrown 
about  her  shoulders  in  military  fashion,  came  in  with 
Edna. 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Vernon?"  she  said  cordially. 

And  life  was  again  worth  the  living.  The  sparkle  in 
her  eyes  seemed  to  shoot  pointed  darts  of  enticement  in 
his  direction.  Then  after  a  few  minutes  in  an  adjoining 
room,  she  came  in  and  again  sat  down  by  his  side,  while 
Mrs.  Bellamy  with  a  vague  excuse  that  she  must  help 
Edna  left  the  room.  Leonard  felt  the  touch  of  Charline's 
delicately  fragranced  person  with  an  intoxication  of  bliss. 

And  the  bit  of  poetry  was  in  his  inner  pocket. 

When  Charline  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  Mr.  Vernon,  we  talked  about  you  half  the  night 
last  night !  You've  certainly  made  a  hit  with  mother." 

Vernon  looked  at  her,  startled.  He  was  unable  to 
keep  back  the  exclamation  of  his  surprise : 

"With  mother!" 

He  faltered  on :  "Why,  how  old  do  you  think  I  am  ?" 

She  studied  him  for  some  time.  Out  in  the  kitchen 
(dishes  were  rattling,  intermingling  with  a  rather  whis- 
pered conversation. 

"Well,  I  guess  you  are  about  fifty." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

LEONARD  VERNON  felt  sleep  impossible  that  night. 
Walking  on  the  carpeted  floor,  he  fought  all  the 
anguishing  thoughts  that  seemed  to  have  returned  with 
more  ardour  than  ever.  He  could  not  help  comparing 
Marcy  with  the  blonde-haired  child  of  the  afternoon. 
And  one  he  found  was  wise  and  worldly  and  clever  and 
irritating,  while  the  other — a  gracious  gift  of  God  to  man 
— was  wholesome  and  real  and  lovable.  And  she  was 
lost  to  him  forever.  Never  again,  as  long  as  he  was  on 
earth,  would  there  be  that  sweetness  for  him  that  she 
had  given  him.  Never  again  would  such  eyes  look  into 
his  eyes,  and  such  lips  press  against  his  lips  with  a  mes- 
sage that  gave  all  and  asked  no  return  but  love. 

Life  w^s  over  for  him.  There  was  no  use  to  lie  about 
it  to  himself.  She  had  been  the  other  part  of  him  and 
had  been  taken  away.  Half  of  him  was  dead.  The  other 
[half  must  follow.  Perhaps  they  might  be  united  in 
some  other  life.  But  this  earthly  existence  was  fin- 
ished. He  would  go  on  seeking,  but  he  would  never 
find. 

And  as  he  had  done  as  a  boy,  Leonard  sat  down  in 
a  chair  by  the  window  and  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands 
while  bitter  tears  filled  his  eyes  and  ran  down  on  to 
his  cheeks. 

Near  early  dawn,  he  resolved  upon  death. 

Life  uncompleted  had  no  worth.  There  was  no  reason 
for  his  existence.  Unfinished  men  like  himself  had  no 
value  on  earth. 

310 


THE    TAKER  311 

Soon  he  would  be  going  around  hunting  for  a  kind 
word. 

Leonard  became  quite  tranquil  at  this  new  decision. 
Just  deciding  to  take  this  step,  suddenly  offered  to  him 
the  first  relief  he  had  ever  known.  He  could  stare  out 
of  the  windows  now  and  look  up  Broadway  with  its  lines 
of  piercing  street  lights  without  each  one  seeming  a  mock- 
ing face  grinning  at  his  misery. 

He  decided  to  kill  himself,  quietly,  as  if  it  were  a  long- 
sought-for  solution — a  noble  ending,  not  pausing  to  re- 
flect that  it  would  be  the  end,  his  eternal  farewell  to  earth 
and  to  life. 

Then  he  thought  about  how  he  could  accomplish  it. 
He  quickly  rid  himself  of  the  idea  of  a  revolver.  One 
had  to  have  a  steady  hand  and  take  a  sort  of  aim  and 
pull  a  trigger.  It  was  mechanical. 

He  thought  of  poison.  But  what  kind  of  poison?  Car- 
bolic acid  might  do  it.  But  he  had  read  enough  of  the 
agonising  death  brought  by  its  corrosive  action.  That 
was  the  common  way,  too.  Every  one  used  it. 

Good  God! 

Mabel — Marcy ! ! 

It  took  him  some  time  to  get  back  to  his  original  idea. 
Until  he  found  he  was  getting  nervous  and  must  decide 
on  something  quickly. 

He  thought  of  chloroform.  Just  that  day  he  had  read 
how  a  young  fellow  had  managed  to  kill  himself  with  the 
anaesthetic.  The  paper  had  commented  that  this  was  an 
unusual  death — self-asphyxiation  by  this  method.  It  had 
been  proven  nearly  impossible — unless  the  patient  had  a 
weak  heart.  And  then  the  heart  collapsed.  Otherwise, 
the  article  had  said,  death  was  impossible  because  air 
became  mixed  with  the  gas,  and  it  could  be  carried  in  no 


312  THE    TAKER 

other  way;  in  fact,  the  power  was  lost  to  do  it  by 
muscular  numbness,  before  the  thing  could  be  carried 
through. 

He  thought  about  it. 

A  doctor  had  told  him  he  had  a  weak  heart,  he  re- 
membered, some  years  before.  Though  at  the  age  of 
seventeen  he  had  had  quite  a  bloody  operation  for  ade- 
noids under  an  anaesthetic.  And  the  doctor  had  told  him 
then  that  his  heart  was  sound. 

Certainly  it  would  be  the  pleasantest  way  he  could 
think  of. 

The  matter  was  settled.  He  would  make  out  his  will 
in  the  morning,  leaving  everything  to  charity. 

The  joy  of  living  was  in  creating  and  giving — as  he 
had  read  some  place. 

Though  now  he  was  dying. 

Perhaps  he  should  have  thought  of  that  before.  Per- 
haps— that  was  the  secret  of  happiness.  Anyway,  it  was 
too  late  now. 

He  would  get  a  list  of  hospitals  and  let  his  lawyer 
divide  it  between  them  equally.  Yes,  he  had  nearly  for- 
gotten— Jennie.  He  would  leave  her  half.  It  was  a 
nice  thing  to  do,  too.  About  the  first  time  he  had  ever 
done  anything  for  her. 

Then  he  would  get  the  chloroform  in  a  drug  store  and 
end  it  all  about  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon. 

It  was  odd,  he  reflected,  that  even  death  had  to  have 
an  exact  time.  At  least  his  business  instinct  was  fol- 
lowing right  through  to  the  end.  Standing  in  front  of 
the  mirror,  he  could  not  help  but  laugh  a  little  about  it. 

At  least  he  was  running  his  death.  He  had  not  had 
the  power  to  control  his  life. 

Leonard  now  took  off  his  clothes,  quite  calmly  took  a 


THE    TAKER  313 

brush  and  straightened  out  the  thin  long  hairs  at  the 
crown  of  his  head,  put  on  his  pajamas  and  got  into  bed. 

At  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  Leonard  walked  up 
Broadway  to  the  drug  store  at  Forty-sixth  Street. 

He  felt  a  sort  of  joy,  now  that  he  had  actually  deter- 
mined to  finish  himself.  In  fact,  it  was  a  feeling  more 
like  pride  than  he  had  ever  known.  Whittimore  and 
the  clerks  in  the  office  would  talk  about  how  brave  he 
was.  They  would  remark  how  light-hearted  he  had  seemed 
in  their  last  words  with  him.  Just  as  he  entered  the  store 
the  thought  came  to  him  that  he  ought  to  leave  some  sort 
of  letter. 

This  idea  pleased  him.  He  could  give  a  few  thoughts 
on  life  all  right.  And  he  really  might  do  some  one  some 
good  by  it. 

In  the  drug  store  the  clerk  enquired  why  he  wanted 
chloroform.  He  was  pleased  at  the  alertness  of  his  mind 
when  he  answered  casually: 

"Why,  I  really  don't  know.  Our  family  physician 
ordered  it — for  rubbing  purposes,  I  think." 

The  clerk,  a  young  fellow  with  blonde  pompadour  hair 
and  a  red  necktie,  thought  for  a  moment,  then  went  back 
to  the  prescription  counter  and  soon  returned  with  a  small 
can,  which  he  wrapped  up  in  front  of  Leonard. 

Leonard  walked  out  strangely  happy,  as  if  he  had  out- 
witted some  one  in  a  business  deal. 

When  he  got  up  in  his  room  he  took  off  his  hat  and 
coat  and  unwrapped  the  can  and  placed  it  on  the  table  in 
front  of  him. 

He  thought: 

"Well,  Leonard  Vernon — to-morrow — this  time — you'll 
be  dead." 


314  THE    TAKER 

For  the  instant  a  horrible  feeling  passed  over  him. 
Dead !  He  would  never  again  see  any  one,  or  eat,  or  sleep, 

or  talk! 

What  power  an  individual  had  after  all.  In  an  instant 
he  could  undo  the  work  of  nearly  forty  years,  and  the 
instrument  was  within  everybody's  reach  all  the  time !  He 
walked  over  to  the  bureau  and  stood  in  front  of  the 
mirror.  He  saw  how  determined  his  eyes  looked.  He 
was  really  astonished  to  see  what  strength  was  there. 

And  he  reflected  on: 

"Queer.  This  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I  have 
been  actually  determined  on  what  I  want  to  do.  With- 
out asking  anybody's  advice  or  consulting  them." 

He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed.  What  would 
people  say?  Leonard  Vernon  had  committed  suicide  in 
his  room  at  a  Broadway  hotel. 

How  Jennie  would  mourn! 

Poor  Jennie! 

A  shudder  ran  through  him.  He  could  almost  see  her 
cheerful  face.  After  all,  she  had  loved  him.  Perhaps 
he  should  have  just  stayed  with  her  and  been  content. 
And  commonplace. 

But  Marcy  had  proved  to  him  how  impossible  that 
would  have  been. 

Certainly  his  life  had  been  a  failure.  He  was  right 
in  knowing  when  to  end  it.  He  had  been  just  an  atom 
put  on  earth  with  no  purpose  in  itself.  In  fact,  just 
half  an  atom — if  such  a  thing  were  possible.  Had  he 
not  needed  this  other  half  to  make  him  a  completed  thing? 
How  clear  things  were  now.  Had  he  found  the  right 
woman  he  would  have  been  happy.  But  supposing  he 
had.  Of  what  purpose  would  life  have  been  anyway?  He 
would  have  had  to  go  on  making  money  just  to  buy 


THE    TAKER  315 

things  that  people  without  money  couldn't  have.  And 
what  good  did  that  do?  In  fact,  what  good  did  any  one 
do  in  life?  What  difference  was  there  if  any  one  cer- 
tain person  weren't  born?  Or  were  killed  after  he  was 
born?  What  difference  did  it  make  if  a  million  people 
were  killed,  for  that  matter?  Perhaps  one  or  two  of 
them  might  invent  something  like  the  telephone  or  wire- 
less. But  people  went  on  just  as  well  before  they  had 
them.  Perhaps  that  was  the  solution  of  it.  Ignorance! 
And  being  happy!  Certainly  it  made  no  difference 
whether  one  lived  ten  years  or  seventy  years.  One  was 
only  really  first  born  the  day  that  happiness  came.  In 
his  youth  he  had  so  wanted  to  be  a  painter.  But  what 
difference  would  it  have  made  if  he  had  painted  some  un- 
usual picture?  Nobody  would  have  known  how  unusual 
it  was  until  some  one  had  said  so  first.  And  that  one 
person,  if  his  opinion  were  accepted,  could  say  it  was 
a  bad  picture.  And  then  the  picture  would  never  be 
heard  of.  People  were  like  sheep.  Taking  other  people's 
opinions  and  conventions.  They  were  afraid  to  think  for 
themselves.  Then,  even  if  they  did  think  for  themselves, 
it  would  not  be  accepted  as  right  unless  everybody  else 
thought  the  same  thing.  After  all — what  did  anything 
amount  to  ?  Yet  every  one  was  so  anxious  to  live !  Queer ! 

Killing  one's  self  was  probably  the  only  real  accom- 
plishment in  life! 

At  least  it  was  certainly  some  revenge  on  the  ironic 
scheme. 

Downstairs  the  orchestra  was  playing  in  the  restaurant. 
The  noise  came  up  through  the  shaft  of  the  court.  Down 
there,  people  were  having  tea — drinking  and  eating — 
looking  into  each  other's  eyes  and  trying  to  persuade 
themselves,  or  at  least  each  other,  that  they  were  mates. 


316  THE    TAKER 

If  they  only  knew  what  he  knew  about  it!  Mates  were 
born  of  some  force  beyond  the  control  of  man. 

What  fools ! 

He  decided  to  undress  before  he  wrote  the  note. 

When  he  had  on  his  dressing-robe,  he  placed  a  number 
of  sheets  of  paper  in  front  of  him  on  the  table  by  the 
window.  Across  the  way,  on  a  roof,  a  vast  chewing-gum 
sign  began  faintly  to  blink  at  him,  but  he  soon  got  this 
off  his  mind. 

Then  the  orchestra  downstairs  began  playing  again. 
It  was  faint  and  lively.  He  listened. 

It  was  the  motif  of  Scheherezade. 

Poor  Marcy! 

If  only  she  were  here  now ! 

He  began  to  write : 

"I  don't  mean  to  complain.  I  used  to  believe  in  this  life. 
I  wanted  so  much.  I  guess  I  was  too  unknowing  about  it.  I 
used  to  think  there  was  some  law — of  equality.  J — I " 

What  a  difficult  thing  it  was  to  write  a  message  to 
the  world.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  just  to  leave  him- 
self out  of  it  entirely. 

Strange!  What  would  people  care  who  or  what  he 
was  or  thought — when  he  was  dead? 

He  started  again: 

"None  of  us  ever  get  what  we  want.  It  is  inevitable  that 
every  one  must  go  on  fooling  themselves  until  the  end " 

After  all,  what  was  there  to  say?  And  if  he  did  say 
something  worth  while,  it  would  only  be  the  curious  who 
read  it.  And  then  they  would  make  fun  of  him — be- 
cause they  were  happy  and  well. 

Then  who  would  he  address  it  to  anyway?    Excepting 


THE    TAKER  317 

Jennie  perhaps,  or  Wliittimore  ?  And  it  would  never 
reach  the  world  that  way.  Perhaps  he  could  say,  "To 
whom  it  may  concern." 

How  ridiculous ! 

Yes,  he  would  just  scribble  the  word:  "Farewell.** 

That  said  everything  and  would  prove  how  debonairly 
he  had  taken  the  whole  matter. 

Leonard  scribbled  the  word  "Farewell"  across  the 
top  of  the  paper.  Then  a  sort  of  hysteria  overcame 
him.  And  he  scribbled,  "Farewell,"  "Farewell,"  a  dozen 
times  or  more,  up  and  down  and  across  the  page. 

It  was  hard  for  him  to  quiet  himself  now.  But  he  at 
last  managed  to  sit  down  by  the  centre  table  after  go- 
ing into  the  bathroom  and  getting  a  large  bath  towel. 
For  a  time  he  became  silent,  indifferent  to  everything — 
a  feeling  that  he  vainly  tried  to  throw  off.  With  his 
hands  spread  out  upon  his  knees,  he  stared  into  ghastly 
emptiness.  If  he  could  have  reached  the  thought  deeply 
buried  in  him,  it  would  have  been  that  he  was  seeking  con- 
solation for  the  shattered  dream  in  his  grief-trammelled 
soul. 

He  took  the  can  and  opened  it.  Now  there  was  only 
one  distinct  thought  in  his  mind.  He  was  going  to  die. 

When  he  opened  the  can  a  strange,  sharp,  yet  sweet, 
odour  filled  the  room.  He  poured  it  onto  the  towel  until 
one  end  of  it  was  saturated.  Then  he  shut  his  eyes  and, 
leaning  back  in  the  rocking  chair,  placed  the  towel  over 
his  nose  and  began  to  inhale,  very  deeply. 

At  first  this  was  difficult,  as  he  could  not  keep  from 
coughing  and  choking  terribly.  But  at  last  he  became 
more  accustomed  to  the  fumes. 

Thoughts  began  filling  his  mind  with  each  inhalation, 
thoughts  that  told  him  he  must  fight  against  stopping 


318  THE    TAKER 

this  breathing  with  all  his  strength.  But  in  a  moment 
he  felt  much  better,  although  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  gas 
stayed  inside  of  him  and  pushed  out  his  chest. 

Yes,  he  was  expanding,  most  surely. 

It  was  just  at  the  instant  when  he  made  up  his  mind 
to  tear  the  saturated  towel  away  from  his  face  that  the 
bursting  feeling  was  replaced  by  a  sensation  that  made 
him  feel  much  better,  much  lighter,  like  an  inflated  bal- 
loon— made  him  feel  more  pleasant. 

Indeed,  he  was  being  carried  away  now,  luxuriously. 

What  an  idea! 

His  body  had  filled  with  this  gas  and  he  was  floating 
about  the  room. 

Where  would  he  float? 

How  people  would  be  startled  if  he  should  go  out  of 
the  window  and  over  Broadway !  The  papers  would  have 
headlines  full  of  it.  Why  shouldn't  he — just  let  himself 
do  this — for  the  fun  of  it? 

When  Leonard  opened  his  eyes  he  saw  that  the  towel 
was  on  the  table  and  quite  dry. 

He  poured  the  remainder  of  the  can  on  to  the  towel 
and  shut  his  eyes  again.  And  began  to  take  deep  breaths. 
It  was  so  sweet  and  pleasant. 

By  far  the  sweetest  and  pleasantest  thing  he  had  ever 
done. 

While  the  people  downstairs  were  sitting  and  talking 
about  life,  he  was  living  it — just  happy,  tingling,  com- 
fortable, soothed.  Just  as  happy  as  he  was  as  a  boy, 
when  he  used  to  whistle  in  the  morning  before  break- 
fast. 

Perhaps  he  might  whistle  now?  They  couldn't  hear 
him  downstairs?  Why  shouldn't  he  whistle  if  he  wanted 
to?  What  should  he  whistle?  If  he  wanted  to  whistle 


THE    TAKER  319 

no  one  could  stop  him?  He  was  Leonard  Vernoji.  He'd 
buy  out  the  whole  hotel  if  they'd  stop  him. 

He  had  no  body  at  all — just  a  sensation  of  wanting 
to  whistle.  That  was  all.  Of  course,  he  had  legs  and 
arms  some  place — but  they  were  of  no  importance.  He 
was  too  happy  to  bother  about  legs  and  arms  now. 

But  he  could  think — wonderfully  now.  He  could  see 
everything  that  had  happened  since  he  was  a  boy. 

They  were  lifting  him  up  on  a  sort  of  platform  that 
was  floating  in  the  air.  Everybody  was  throwing  flowers 
at  him  and  cheering  him  and  he  was  bowing  to  them 
for  the  homage  they  paid  him.  How  they  appreciated 
him  and  understood  what  a  big  man  he  was  and  how  he 
had  suffered. 

Somehow  he  was  a  great  man.  Which  the  people 
seemed  to  know  all  about.  They  couldn't  be  making  any 
mistake. 

Suddenly  there  was  vagueness  .  .  .  nothing.  He 
opened  his  eyes.  There  was  a  table  in  front  of  him  and — 
the  towel  on  the  floor. 

So  he  was  not  dead  yet! 

But  very  comfortable!  And  there  was  a  sweet  numb 
feeling  all  over  him.  His  hands  were  in  front  of  him  on 
the  table.  They  looked  like  the  hands  of  some  one  else — 
funny-looking  and  large  and  white. 

What  a  strange  object  a  hand  was  anyway!  And 
people  wore  them. 

Funny ! 

It  made  him  laugh! 

So  he  was  not  yet  dead? 

Why  should  he  die? 

What  h?d  made  him  want  to  die? 


320  THE    TAKER 

If  he  could  feel  like  this  he  would  want  to  live  forever. 
One  could  have  so  much  fun! 

There  was  Mrs.  Ranier,  for  instance.  Why  hadn't  he 
thought  of  her  before  he  made  up  his  mind  to  die?  She 
was  charming-looking  and  had  such  a  cute  nose  and  such 
round  laughing  eyes — a  really  delightful  little  person. 
And  she  liked  him  too.  And  understood  him.  And  knew 
how  he  had  struggled.  And  she  knew  how  stupid  were 
all  the  institutions  of  life  like  marriage.  She  had  told 
him  that  with  her  eyes  when — Marcy  died. 

No — no  bad  thoughts  now — just  happiness. 

He  must  call  her  on  the  'phone — if  it  wasn't  too  late. 

Somehow  Leonard  managed  to  grope  his  way  to  the 
telephone  and  talk  into  the  hollow  black  mouth  of  the 
transmitter. 

"Give  me " 

It  was  all  so  vague — where  she  lived.  Then  he  re- 
membered the  apartment  house. 

"You  must  get  this  party  on  the  'phone — for  me — a 
Mrs.  Ran-ier,"  he  called  to  the  hotel  central.  He  gave 
her  the  apartment  house  number  and  the  street. 

He  was  so  deliciously  weak  and  there  seemed  to  be 
many  white-faced,  hollow-eyed  Leonard  Vernons  in  the 
mirror  of  the  dressing-table  opposite  him. 

Strangely,  it  took  hardly  a  second  for  the  call.  He 
wondered  why  everything  happened  so  quickly. 

<£You  think  of  something  and  it  happens,"  he  reflected. 

He  put  the  receiver  to  his  ear. 

"I — I—  "  he  faltered,  "I  would  like  to  call  on  you,  my 
— dear  Mrs.  Ranier.  I'm  feeling  pretty  fine  this  eve- 
ning." 

But  how  unfortunate.  She  could  only  see  him  for  a 
half  hour,  though  there  were  other  evenings.  "A  Mr. 


THE    TAKER  321 

Weinstein" — perhaps  he  had  heard  of  him,  he  was  a  very 
successful  jewelry  importer  from  Chicago — "was  in  the 
city."  But  she  was  so  sorry.  "How  are  you?  I've 
thought  so  much  about  you." 

Leonard  could  hardly  make  out  what  she  said.  But 
it  was  something  about  coming  for  a  half  hour  anyway, 
and  he  answered: 

"Fine.     I'll  be  there." 

To  himself  he  thought  aloud,  as  he  caught  the  receiver 
on  its  claw-like  hook,  "She's  a  dear  little  woman." 

Then  he  wondered  if  she  were  through  talking  and  he 
grabbed  the  receiver  again  and  heard  floating  into  his 
ear:  "How  are  you?  You  sound — woozy." 

"Oh,  fine,"  he  muttered  back.  "I'll  be  up  in  a  half  hour. 
Wait  for  me.  Fine." 

He  remembered  what  a  nice  round  body  she  had,  and 
how  kind  she  had  been  to  him — at  some  time  or  other. 

Leonard  Vernon  began  to  dress  while  songs  of  aban- 
don ran  through  his  ecstatic  mind. 

Also  he  stumbled  against  the  table  as  he  crossed  the 
room. 

And  in  the  bathroom,  where  he  went  to  wash  his  face 
and  hands,  he  sank  helplessly  to  his  knees  in  front  of  the 
wash-basin. 

He  was  going  to  live  after  all. 

But — how  his  mind  was  clearing! 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

DISINTEGRATION  of  what  was  left  of  the  man, 
Leonard  Vernon,  began  the  moment  he  regained  his 
senses. 

He  thought,  his  hands  moved — but  there  was  no  co- 
hesion in  him.  It  was  more  as  if  his  thoughts  were  only 
segments  of  himself — isolated  in  his  brain  with  no  con- 
nection or  control  that  he  could  call  on  for  help. 

It  was  as  if  he  were  being  resolved  into  his  different 
elements. 

So  he  hung  on  to  the  side  of  the  wash-basin,  supporting 
himself  against  the  white-enamelled  surface,  like  some 
liquor-besotted  individual. 

And  unto  himself  he  moaned,  "Vernon — Vernon" — a 
pitiable  cry  of  anguish,  while  the  clouds  floated  away  from 
his  mind  and  revealed  to  him  the  horror  of  his  prospective 
errand. 

But  the  worst  horror  came  when  he  glimpsed  himself 
in  the  mirror  above  the  nickel-plated  faucets.  Then  it 
was  that  the  delicate  balance  that  had  maintained  itself 
between  his  mind  and  his  body  was  completely  severed. 
He  saw  a  white,  pasty,  aged  face,  so  transparent  that  not 
a  drop  of  blood  seemed  to  course  through  the  flesh. 

He  sunk  down  to  the  floor,  possessed  by  a  racking  las- 
situde that  destroyed  the  last  vestige  of  his  awakening 
determination. 

It  was  over  an  hour  before  he  could  resume  the  inter- 
rupted thread  of  his  thoughts. 

322 


THE    TAKER  323 

Though  he  felt  all  the  time  that  something  ghastly 
confronted  him,  which  must  be  put  off  as  long  as  possible, 
only  gradually  could  he  conceive  the  significance  of  it. 

He — who  somehow  had  become  anxious  to  live  again — 
had  a — rendezvous — with  a  little  pug-nosed  woman  of 
middle  age. 

God  in  heaven! 

For  that  he  had  wanted  to  get  back  on  earth ! 

Life — God — that  had  taken  so  much  of  his  thought — 
resulting — in  what? 

Musing  on,  in  a  sort  of  mingled  agony  of  self-loathing 
and  amazement,  the  while  he  dragged  himself  from  the 
bathroom  back  into  the  bedroom  and  into  the  bathroom 
again,  perhaps  a  half-dozen  times,  Leonard  began  to  re- 
bel against  the  sardonic  future  beckoning  to  him. 

And  then  began  to  shade  the  eyes  of  his  future  from  the 
tragic  illumination  cast  by  the  powerful  light  of  Fact. 

And  at  last  he  seated  himself  by  the  window  and  looked 
down  upon  the  more  consoling  lights  of  the  city,  which 
were  more  distant  from  him. 

What  should  he  do?  Live  or  die?  Why  should  he 
want  to  live?  or  die,  for  that  matter? 

He  sat  very  quietly,  his  eyes  riveted  upon  the  crowds 
in  miniature  below.  The  question  seemed  to  be  echoed 
from  every  moving  thing.  Queerly,  after  some  time,  every 
one  seemed  to  stare  up  at  him,  with  their  eyes  gaping  big 
and  round,  like  the  Beasts  in  Revelations.  , 

And  then,  by  barely  discernible  shifts,  there  grew  in 
his  mind  the  understanding  that  it  was  just  as  foolish 
to  die  as  it  was  to  live. 

While  one  had  some  hand  in  managing  life,  they  should 
not  tamper  with  death.  That  should  be  left  to  other 


324  THE    TAKER 

hands  who  did  it  for  you,  in  one  way  or  another,  with- 
out you  bothering  to  exercise  your  own  ingenuity. 

.  .  .  It  was  indeed  a  period  of  real  understanding,  a 
sort  of  gifted  hour  of  clairvoyance  that  really  displayed 
to  him  the  exact  status  of  man  in  relation  to  the  un- 
solvable  riddle.  And  in  this  period  of  unprecedented 
lucidity,  Leonard  Vernon  saw  as  a  clear  and  simple  neces- 
sity that  the  human  being's  only  vocation  should  be  to 
get  the  most  out  of  the  life  that  was  handed  him.  He 
saw  that  it  was  contrary  to  the  laws  of  Nature  to  assume 
the  authority  of  ending  it.  In  fact,  all  that  God,  or  the 
principle,  or  scheme,  demanded  was  for  the  human  being 
to  be  sensible  enough  not  to  meddle  with  things,  like  death, 
which  didn't  concern  him.  His  job  was  to  accept  and 
make  the  most  out  of  Life. 

What  an  idea! 

Ninety  per  cent,  of  the  world's  misery  would  be  elimi- 
nated if  people  attended  to  their  own  business. 

At  least,  if  one  didn't  concern  themselves  about  it,  there 
would  be  lost  the  element  of  doubt  in  life.  Because  one 
wouldn't  doubt  so  much  the  things  he  couldn't  control. 
One  only  doubted  when  he  didn't  know  what  he  was  going 
to  do  next. 

What  a  fool  everybody  was!  When  they  could  have 
so  much  fun ! 

He  found  himself  talking  to  himself,  with  a  chuckling 
laugh : 

"How  silly!  We  haven't  any  right  to  bother  about 
what  doesn't  concern  us.  That's  the  reason  we  are  made 
to  suffer.  We  don't  attend  to  our  own  business.  .  .  ." 

It  was  all  so  clear,  as  if  the  curtain  of  his  life  had 
been  drawn  and  revealed  for  the  first  time  the  advantage 


THE    TAKER  325 

of  plain,  common  sense,  which  he  saw  now  had  never,  in 
all  his  years,  been  unveiled. 

"Common  sense  is  the  secret  of  life,"  he  whispered,  and 
the  idea  actually  seemed  to  represent  the  golden  key  to 
happiness.  Without  common  sense  one  wanted  things 
of  the  imagination,  as  he  had  done. 

Which  meant  wanting  things  he  couldn't  get! 

Then  another  idea  came  to  him. 

Common  sense — was  the  Nirvana  to  be  obtained  on  the 
Heavenly  Plateau,  which  understanding  had  to  be  reached 
by  suffering.  In  no  other  way  could  one  discard  illusions. 
Common  sense  was  no  gift  that  could  come  with  Youth, 
for  instance. 

One  had  to  undergo  experiences. 

As  he  had. 

The  life  of  man  upon  earth  was  a  process  of  elimination. 
Some,  the  less  clever  ones,  never  entirely  eliminated  imagi- 
nation from  their  thoughts,  while  others,  he  for  instance, 
gained  the  heaven  of  complete  elimination  of  illusions  at 
forty. 

He  was  indeed  lucky ! 

So  deciding,  Leonard  arose  and  went  to  the  medicine- 
chest  in  the  bathroom,  took  down  the  bottle  of  whiskey 
with  its  leather  covering,  and  poured  out  a  drink  that  half 
filled  the  tumbler. 

For  years  he  had  been  such  a  fool,  always  serious  and 
thinking  about  things. 

After  which,  in  a  glowing  inspiration,  he  put  on  his 
hat  and  overcoat  and  went  down  into  the  night  air  of 
Broadway.  The  night,  above  the  strata  of  lighted  signs, 
was  dark  and  starless,  the  sky  was  fringed  by  dripping 
clouds  of  drizzle  that  seemed  to  mock  the  blazing  streets 
below  it  and  determined  to  dampen  some  of  their  ardour. 


326  THE    TAKER 

But  his  elation  was  growing  by  the  minute,  more  definite 
and  substantial. 

As  he  walked,  he  thought: 

"My  happiness  and  peace  of  mind  are  in  my  own 
hands.  .  .  . 

"I  have  learned  the  Sesame  to  contentment.   .  .  . 

"I  have  been  through  the  scorching  hell  of  disillusion 
ment.  .  .  . 

"Now  I  am  free!     Free!" 

Even  as  he  ended  his  walk  at  a  night  restaurant  at 
Forty-ninth  Street  and  very  quietly  was  handing  his  cane 
and  hat  to  the  boy  who  blocked  his  way  at  the  foot  of 
the  cushioned  stairs  ascending  to  a  miniature  ballroom,  he 
went  on,  thinking,  over  and  over :  "I've  been  through  hell — 
I've  been  through  hell!" 

No  longer  was  he  shivering  with  self-distrust ;  no  longer 
was  he  a  living  apostrophe  to  the  King  of  Mercy. 

He  was  emancipated — unmanacled — from  the  steel  grip 
of  every  earthly  imprisonment. 

And  this  included  women.  .  .  . 

He  entered  the  arena  of  pleasure  upstairs  in  an  efful- 
gence of  self-satisfaction. 

His  head  was  erect,  his  chin  lifted,  his  body  straight. 

He  was  the  captain  of  his  ship,  the  master  of  his  soul. 


CHAPTER  XL 

LEONARD  was  shown  his  seat,  at  the  edge  of  the 
cleared  space,  in  the  midst  of  an  encore.  Though 
not  without  the  usual  preliminary.  The  head-waiter, 
never  having  seen  him  before,  hesitated  about  giving  even 
this  well-groomed  slightly  tipsy  gentleman  such  a  choice 
seat.  But  a  bill  on  Leonard's  part  and  a  relenting  glance 
from  the  waiter,  that  immediately  placed  his  guest  in  his 
proper  social  niche,  completed  the  transaction  of  entry. 

Leonard  adjusted  himself  at  the  small  table  and  then 
quietly   ordered   a  bottle   of   "Pommery — Simple    Sec.," 
while  he  cast  his  eyes  onto  the  cleared  waxen  space,  where 
a  dark-skinned  girl  with  cadaverous  face,  framed  by  heavy 
lustrous  black  hair,  was  bowing  to  the  clapping  multitude. 
Next  him  shouted  a  bald,  bespectacled  individual: 
"Encore — encore — Fanchon !    Be  a  good  girl !" 
Fanchon  seemed  to  know  him,  too,  for  she  gave  him  a 
sidelong  glance,  then  nodded  to  the  orchestra.     The  cem- 
balo broke  into  a  weird  tom-tom  melody  that  reminded 
Leonard  of  gipsy  caravans  journeying  across  the  lonely 
prairies,  the  lights  went  out  and  she  began  to  dance  as 
a    purple    and    gold    shaft    of    illumination    caught    the 
diamond-studded  bracelet  on  her  wrist. 

She  was  a  favourite,  he  could  easily  see,  from  the  way 
every  one  hung  on  to  her  rhythmic  gyrations.  Every  one 
watched  her.  Looking  about  the  room,  Leonard  could 
see  how  the  eyes  of  every  one  followed  her,  older  men, 
men  much  older  than  he,  over-developed  young  girls,  yet 

327 


328  THE    TAKER 

deep  in  their  teens,  sallow-faced  youths  with  sleepy  ex- 
pressions, other  young  fellows,  college  youths  perhaps, 
with  round  cheeks  untarnished  by  dissipation  and  eyes 
shining  with  unnatural  eagerness. 

Then  from  out  of  the  darkness  came  a  tall  thin  youth, 
who  turned  and  twisted  her  to  the  end  of  the  dance,  till 
it  seemed  that  both  must  stop,  faint  for  the  want  of 
breath. 

At  last  it  was  over.  Fanchon  threw  a  kiss  to  the  crowd, 
the  jewelled  band  round  her  thin  wrist  caught  the  light 
and  sparkled  like  dots  of  fire,  a  jaded  girl  with  a  thin 
blue  dress  and  dark  purplish  rings  of  dissipation  under 
her  eyes  began  dancing  cheek  to  cheek  with  one  of  the 
sallow-faced  youths  in  evening  dress,  the  tired  musicians 
tried  to  mop  their  perspiring  heads  and  helped  themselves 
to  the  ice-water,  poured  out  for  them  from  a  cut-glass 
water-pitcher  by  the  drummer,  who  was  at  leisure. 

Nor  was  Leonard's  mind  unaffected  by  this  rollicking 
scheme  of  desire  and  exotic  idling.  He  had  caught  the 
close  proximity  of  the  dancers'  bodies,  had  caught  the 
vehemence  of  Fanchon's  unnatural  beauty  as  she  whirled 
past  him.  And  he  was  steeped  in  it,  body  and  soul. 

Fanchon  came  to  the  table  next  him,  sat  down ;  he  saw 
she  was  clever-looking,  strangely  pretty;  he  caught  her 
eye,  beckoned  to  her ;  she  apologised,  arose,  and  before  he 
knew  or  could  realise  it  was  sipping  wine  with  him  and 
exchanging  glances. 

"You're  a  perfectly  marvellous  dancer,"  said  Leonard. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't,  dear  boy !" 

Her  eyes  danced  tantalisingly. 

"But  I  mean  it.  Quite  the  most  wonderful  dancer  I've 
ever  seen." 

Her  skin,  under  the  orange-coloured  light  of  the  table, 


THE    TAKER  329 

had  a  delicate  velvety  softness,  like  the  sheen  of  a  heavy 
pink  silk. 

Then  he  became  more  earnest  and  sympathetic. 

"It  must  be  tiring,  dancing  like  this  every  night.  Don't 
you  get  worn  out  from  it?" 

He  was  indeed  lucky  to  have  her  so  long.  Every  one 
must  have  envied  him. 

And  immediately  he  noticed  a  deepening  of  the  shaded 
circles  under  her  eyes.  Her  voice  lost  its  fictitious  note 
of  cheer. 

"I  do  get  tired — so  tired.  The  people  are  so — so  com- 
monplace and — "  she  seemed  to  be  studying  him,  wonder- 
ingly,  "the  men  are  all — so  alike."  Looking  back  at  the 
table  she  had  just  left,  she  added:  "Him,  for  instance — 
here  every  night — out  chicken  hunting — looking  for  some 
young  girl  to  make  him  young  again — one  of  New  York's 
tired  business-men!  Oh,  they  make  me  so  sick." 

A  breath  of  companionship  for  her  came  from  Vernon's 
lips: 

"Poor  little  girl." 

And  what  a  challenge  it  was  to  him.  She  had  dis- 
covered in  five  minutes  of  conversation  that  he  was 
different. 

She  had  to  leave  him  shortly  to  prepare  for  her  next 
dance.  But  she  left  Leonard  exultant,  proud,  and  glow- 
ing again,  with  warm  satisfaction. 

After  all,  he  saw,  it  was  only  the  woman  who  herself 
underwent  the  hard  knocks  of  the  world  that  understood. 

.  .  .  For  two  days  thereafter  he  embarked  upon  a  voy- 
age of  courting  that  left  far  behind  in  its  wake  all  mem- 
ory of  past  squalls. 

The  next  night  he  sat  by  the  little  round  table  for 
four  hours,  just  admiring  her. 


330  THE    TAKER 

And  the  day  following  he  spent  four  hundred  and 
seventy-five  dollars  upon  a  delightful  little  memory-pin, 
studded  with  chipped  diamonds  and  amethysts,  which  she 
wore  at  night  when  she  greeted  him  and  reached  over  the 
table  and,  pressing  his  hand,  murmured : 

"You're  too  good  to  me,  Mr.  Vernon.  I  ought  not 
accept  it." 

But  he  beckoned  casually  to  the  waiter  for  a  bottle  of 
wine  before  he  answered  her. 

"It's  nothing — just  a  slight  token  of  my — my  esteem 
— for  your  art." 

She  relinquished  only  slowly,  saying: 

"It's  wonderful  of  you  just  the  same." 

As  she  spoke  he  saw  her  give  the  heart-shaped  clasp 
a  soothing  stroke  of  appreciation. 

The  following  night  Leonard  danced  with  her,  when 
a  song  she  sang  demanded  a  partner  from  the  audience. 
For  the  first  moment  he  faltered,  as  her  extended  arms 
awaited  him.  Then  he  threw  to  the  winds  the  fear  of 
ridicule.  He  made  his  way  out  through  the  tables  and 
folded  her  in  his  arms  in  the  centre  of  the  floor.  And 
betwixt  the  fragrance  that  rose  from  the  perfumed  flesh 
of  her  bosom,  intoxicating  him,  and  the  sturdy  way  she 
guided  him  through  the  dance,  his  delirium  was  neither 
smothered  nor  even  halted. 

But  a  real  pang  of  jealousy  shot  through  him  down 
to  his  aching,  stiffened  knees,  when  she  must  needs  have 
another  partner  for  the  next  verse. 

However,  her  sweet  whispers  would  not  be  repeated  to 
her  new  partner:  "You  dear  old  boy — you  danced  just 
lovely — for  one  who  dances  so  seldom." 

Indeed,  he  followed  her  closely  and  saw  no  evidence 
of  such  confidences. 


THE    TAKER  331 

Although  the  solace  offered  him  was  not  entirely  a 
heart-stilling  one.  The  partner  she  selected  was  fat  and 
pudgy  and  his  red  watery  eyes  were  screened  by  a  pair  of 
thick  glass  spectacles.  In  fact,  he  was  the  pudgy  one 
who  had  sat  next  him  on  the  evening  of  his  first  entrance 
into  this  bedizened  gallery. 

Leonard  sat  drinking  his  Pommery  till  nearly  three 
o'clock.  Then  a  determination  stole  into  the  very  heart 
of  him,  a  startling,  revealing  spasm  of  anticipation,  that 
racked  his  desires  into  a  restless  frenzy. 

He  must  take  her  home.  She  must  sit  beside  him 
in  his  limousine  and  have  her  warm  presence  close  to 
him. 

But  right  at  the  door  she  put  him  off  with  a  shy  answer, 
nearly  childish  in  its  awkward  refusal. 

"To-morrow  night — sure,"  she  murmured,  with  lids  cast 
downward.  But  her  answer  bespoke  even  greater  antici- 
pation for  the  waiting.  "I  am  so  sorry — I — I  promised 
one  of  the  girls  I'd  stay  with  her.  Her  husband's  away 
and  she's  'fraid." 

Leonard  went  home  to  his  rooms  at  the  Claridge  with 
a  slow-beating  heart,  heavy  and  sad.  As  he  walked  past 
the  shop  windows,  he  rearranged  in  his  mind  an  apology 
for  her  delay  in  appreciating  what  he  was  thrusting  at 
her.  Though  he  did  not  blame  himself.  There  was  enough 
to  fortify  him  against  that  at  every  reflection  his  tall, 
well-formed,  well-groomed  person  called  forth  from  the 
shop  windows. 

He  understood  so  much  more  now  than  formerly.  The 
world  would  go  on  just  the  same.  It  would  have  made 
no  difference  if  he  were  walking  past  these  windows  with 
a  half-dollar  piece  in  his  pocket  instead  of  the  million 
or  more  he  could  command  at  the  banks.  That  was  the 


332  THE    TAKER 

way  of  the  world.  Some  day  he  would  be  dead  an'd  yet 
these  same  windows  would  see  saddened  men  going  home, 
gazing  at  their  reflections. 

Everything  was  set  so  the  world  made  a  fool  of  you. 

If  you  weren't  wise. 

His  confidence  came  back  entirely  when  he  entered  the 
warm  marble  lobby  of  the  hotel  and  the  elevator  shot  him 
up  to  his  room. 

"To-morrow  night — this  time,"  he  reflected. 

The  reality  of  his  consummation  was  very  different 
from  anything  he  had  prepared  in  his  mind's  journey. 
On  the  stroke  of  eleven  the  next  night  he  made  his  way 
into  Fanchon's  web  of  pleasure.  He  was  attired  in  a 
close-fitting  evening  jacket,  just  arrived  from  the  tailors. 
He  had  on  his  head  to  cover  the  bald  spot  at  the  crown 
an  "invisible  toupee,"  sleekly  concealed  by  an  over-appli- 
cation of  the  imported  brilliantine. 

Fanchon  spied  him  as  soon  as  he  entered.  He  saw  her 
rise  from  the  table  in  a  corner  where  also  sat  an  anaemic- 
looking  youngster  of  some  twenty-one  or  twenty-two 
years.  She  seemed  to  have  glimpsed  him  when  he  had 
hardly  entered  the  door. 

"Come,"  she  said,  as  she  reached  his  side  and  took 
hold  of  his  hand,  "sit  with  us  for  a  few  minutes.  I  am 
so  glad  to  see  you." 

Perplexed,  he  followed  her  through  the  labyrinth  of 
white-covered  tables. 

Also  he  noticed  that  she  was  very  gay.  And  when  they 
reached  the  table  in  the  corner,  as  the  young  man  rose 
for  an  introduction,  that  her  eyes  hungrily  sought  the 
young  fellow's. 

"Ralph,  I  want  you  to  meet  Mr.  Vernon.  You  know 
I  told  you  he  was  going  to  be  my  second  papa.'*  Ralph 


THE    TAKER  333 

smiled  and  reached  for  Vernon's  hesitating  fingers  with  an 
over-manly  greeting. 

After  which  Leonard  sat  down,  slowly,  dazed. 

They  busied  themselves  in  looking  about  the  room,  while 
he  murmured  to  the  waiter  at  his  side: 

"A  large  bottle,  Pommery — Sec.'* 

But  he  could  see  how  the  boy's  eyes  were  searching 
Fanchon's. 

Then  Fanchon's  fingers  stole  across  the  white  cover  and 
held  the  long  lean  fingers  of  the  boy,  rapturously,  pas- 
sionately. 

A  picture  filtered  into  the  abyss  of  Leonard's  memory, 
of  an  old  man  sitting  by  a  path,  while  young  lovers  went 
dancing  by  without  noticing  him. 

His  companions  saw  him  rise  and  grope  his  way  from 
the  table. 

But  it  was  not  until  Leonard  reached  his  room  that  he 
^ould  realise  the  manner  of  Fanchon's  betrayal  of  him. 

He  was  crushed  by  the  irony  of  it. 

"Great  God  in  heaven !"  he  cried. 

As  he  sat  numbly  in  the  leather  rocker  by  the  window, 
the  figure  of  the  lovely  Marcy  came  like  a  relentless  spirit 
and  confronted  him,  for  just  a  fleeting  moment. 

Then  Leonard  jumped  up,  ran  into  the  bathroom,  took 
down  the  whiskey  bottle  and  gulped  two  swallows  that 
choked  off  his  breath. 

His  eyes  became  blind,  his  brain  swollen  with  anger 
and  rebellion. 

In  his  struggle  to  replace  the  bottle  he  smashed  into 
uncountable  bits  the  mirror  over  the  wash-stand. 

A  frenzy  overtook  him.  He  stamped  on  the  bits  of 
glass  as  if  each  were  a  miniature  monument  of  mockery 
which  he  must  crush. 


334  THE    TAKER 

The  heavens  of  his  faith,  his  new  philosophy,  his  con- 
fidence, his  hopes,  came  crashing  down  about  him  in  a 
great  chaos. 

He  swept  up  and  down  the  room,  stamping,  clutching, 
swearing,  crying  out  hoarsely,  until  at  last  he  tottered 
to  the  bed  and  flung  himself  across  the  silk  cover. 

Then  slowly,  in  a  sort  of  darkness,  his  anger  subsided, 
his  rebellion  relinquished  its  hold  upon  his  heart-strings 
and  his  mind.  A  feeling  slowly  came  over  him  that  he 
must  rest,  sleep.  The  gush  of  delirium  passed  and  a 
great  peace  encompassed  him  and  took  its  place. 

How  tired  he  was  of  this  merciless  attack  of  the  world. 
How  tired  he  was  of  everything,  though  somehow  he  no 
longer  hated  or  desired  anything.  What  mattered  the 
money  that  was  pouring  in  from  Hastings?  Instead,  he 
just  felt  sorry — sorry  for  the  world  of  people,  who  must 
struggle  so  to  live,  sorry  for  the  young  and  the  old  who 
toiled  and  hoped  and  dared  the  vulturing  demands  of  the 
pitiless,  circumambient  city. 

It  was  over  an  hour  later  that  Leonard  rose  slowly 
and  undressed,  for  a  surging  weakness  had  come  over 
him.  Then  he  crept  in  between  the  cold  sheets.  He  no 
longer  suffered.  Reasoning  and  reflection  quite  drowned 
out  every  bodily  supplication. 

He  just  was  filled  with  pity;  he  felt  sorry  for  all  the 
young  people,  with  their  worn  expressions  and  eager  faces, 
who  must  toil  to  sustain  themselves.  They  passed  in  front 
of  his  mind  like  a  procession  ...  all  the  young  girls 
whose  joyful  faces  covered  their  anxiety  and  fear  for 
the  future  ...  all  the  Fanchons  ...  he  felt  sorry  for 
men  like  himself  who  had  to  be  amused  .  .  .  who  tried  to 
retrieve  youth. 

Oh,  pity!    Pity! 


THE    TAKER  335 

He  thought: 

"I  love  all  of  you,  you  poor  people  of  this  world  .  .  . 
my  dear,  lovely,  darling  little  friends.  I  know  how  you 
are  suffering.  I  know  how  your  beautiful  bodies  ache 
and  you  dance  and  try  to  entice  us  poor  bent-over  fools. 
I  know  how  you  are  suffering.  And  my  head  is  bowed. 
Pity  us,  for  there  is  a  wall  between  us  and  happiness. 
Oh,  please  listen  to  me.  I  love  you  all.  I  have  been  so 
selfish.  I've  never  had  compassion  for  my  fellow-beings. 
And  I  am  lying  here  prostrated  in  this  bed,  stricken ;  yes, 
forgotten,  unhallowed  .  .  .  and  a  million  men  are  fol- 
lowing me.  Oh,  you  fools,  you  men,  who  are  sleeping, 
listen  to  me,  you  will  love  me  for  it  when  I  am  gone.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XLI 

THE  cleaning  maid  found  Leonard  the  next  morning 
in  a  semi-unconscious  state,  and  with  the  manager, 
and  a  bell-boy,  he  was  roused  sufficiently  to  ask  them  to 
send  for  Jennie. 

It  seemed  that  the  process  that  had  gone  on  in  his 
cataleptic  mind  had  resulted  in  a  definite  demand  for  his 
first  wife,  like  the  filtrated  sediment  brought  down  in  a 
chemist's  laboratory. 

They  sent  out  to  Hastings  for  her,  and  it  was  not  more 
than  three  hours  later  that  she  began  a  vigil  at  his  bed- 
side that  lasted  without  interruption  for  three  days. 
Hour  after  hour,  she  sat  by  him  and  held  his  palsied  hand. 

Once,  on  the  second  day,  he  roused  himself  and  said : 

"Jennie,  Jennie,  you're  here,  dear?     I'm  so  glad." 

And  she  answered,  a  prayer  of  thankfulness  springing 
up  within  her: 

"Yes,  my  beloved,  I  am  here." 

His  eyes  remained  closed  as  he  asked: 

"Why — are  you  so  good  to  me,  dear  Jennie?" 

She  turned  away,  though  she  knew  that  he  would  not 
perceive  her  tears  through  the  veil  over  his  consciousness. 

She  breathed  a  reply. 

"Because  I  love  you  so,  I  guess." 

She  could  hear  just  a  faint  murmur  escape  from  him. 

"Things  are  funny,  aren't  they  ?" 

.  .  .  Leonard  regained  his  health  gradually  after  the 

336 


THE    TAKER  337 

third  day.  At  the  end  of  the  week,  he  was  able  to  sit 
up  in  a  chair  by  the  window. 

And  Jennie  was  by  him  at  all  times.  She  took  a  room 
at  the  end  of  the  hall  and  had  some  clothes  brought 
from  Hastings.  She  appeared  determined  to  restore  his 
health  and  went  about  her  task  with  sparkling  eyes  and 
freshened  cheeks.  It  was  as  if  all  her  slumbering  love  had 
been  lying  dormant,  waiting  for  this  opportunity,  wait- 
ing for  the  call  that  some  day  was  to  come  from  him 
again. 

For  now  there  was  a  youthful  flush  on  her  pale  cheeks 
and  Leonard  perceived  a  radiance  firing  her  tired  blue 
eyes.  No  longer  did  she  move  about  slowly  with  the 
old  phlegmatic  precision.  Instead,  she  went  about  quietly, 
ecstatically,  noiselessly  soothing  his  brow,  or  brushing  his 
hair  with  a  touch  faintly  perceptible. 

And  Leonard  responded,  apparently  emerging  out  of 
the  cataclysm  that  had  stormed  him,  with  a  new  vision. 
He  took  her  hands  and  regarded  her  silently.  Somehow, 
he  found  himself  able  now  to  look  past  the  wrinkles  about 
her  eyes  and  see  the  love-light  hidden  there,  to  glimpse 
past  the  silvery  hair  at  her  temples  into  her  very  soul. 

And  he  cried: 

"Oh,  Jennie,  am  I  finding  out  for  the  first  time  what 
is  the  real  truth?  Have  I  had  to  wait  this  long  to  know 
how  wonderful  you  aj*e?" 

His  voice  quite  broke  as  he  turned  away  and  ex- 
claimed: "Jennie,  dear  one,  forgive  me.  I've  been  so 
unknowing." 

She  murmured  back,  not  able  to  hide  the  swelling  emo- 
tion of  her  feelings : 

"Lennie — my  Lennie  boy.  I'm  so  happy.  I  knew  you'd 
realise — some  day — if  I  just  waited  long  enough." 


338  THE    TAKER 

While  in  Leonard's  mind  there  rose  a  vision  of  a  lonely 
man — an  alien  in  the  world  of  men,  come  back — a  victim 
of  vain  seeking,  of  starved  imagination,  of  egotism — a 
man  of  one  race  with  those  who  roam  the  lonely  highways 
of  the  world  .  .  .  rescued  just  as  the  whirlpool  was  suck- 
ing him  under. 

He  turned  to  Jennie. 

"Jennie,  dear  girl,"  he  sighed,  "I've  been  terribly  un- 
happy and  now — "  it  seemed  difficult  for  him  to  word  his 
thoughts — "now  I  just  find  myself  happy  in  planning  to 
make  you  happy." 

"Lennie  dear,"  she  breathed. 

He  went  on: 

"Just  to  make  you  happy,  Jennie.  Think  of  it!  Tell 
me  what  I  can  do  for  you.  I  deserve  your  pity  more  than 
you  know.  What  a  pathetic  thing  it  is  when  a  man  must 
get  to  my  age  before  he  gets  to  the  great  truth,  before 
he  finds  out  the  joy  of  waking  up  to  the  understanding 
that  one  must  think  of  some  one  else.  I  have  always 

been  seeking,  seeking "  He  looked  away  from  her 

and  broke  into  a  cry,  "God  pity  me!"  But  when  she 
tried  to  shut  him  off  by  affectionately  placing  her  fin- 
gers over  his  pale,  trembling  lips,  he  pushed  them  away 
gently,  firmly.  "No.  Let  me  go  on.  I've  been  seeking, 
Jennie — even  begging  for  just  a  morsel  of  other  people's 
pleasure  and  always  wondering  because  it  didn't  fit  me. 
Yes,  that's  my  story,  Jennie,  day  in  and  day  out,  as  far 
back  as  I  can  remember."  Now  he  faltered :  "A  few  days 
ago — one  night — I  found  myself  actually  happy  at  plac- 
ing the  last  rose-scented  ashes  on  the  grave  of  my  buried 
hopes — for  all  time.  And  now  you've  come  and  shown 
me  what  is  the  greatest  thing  in  life."  He  reached  out 


THE    TAKER  339 

and  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it,  humbly,  devoutly.  "Jen- 
nie," he  begged,  "you  still — care  for  me?" 

She  almost  burst  into  tears  with  her  frantic  answer: 

"I  love  you,  Leonard — with  all  my  heart.  I've  always 
loved  you — from  the  first  day  we  met." 

She  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  shining  eyes.  "My 
only  fear  was — that  maybe  you'd  call  me  too  late." 
Looking  at  him,  as  if  daring  to  face  him  for  the  first 
time,  she  cried:  "But,  oh,  thank  God — you  knew  I  was 
waiting!" 

Leonard  could  not  keep  his  eyes  from  her  as  she  talked. 
Somehow  she  seemed  much  younger  and  he  saw  that  he 
had  been  a  fool,  indeed,  for  a  good  many  years.  Her 
face  was  actually  attractive.  The  circles  of  care  about 
her  eyes  and  the  tiredness  about  her  lips,  which  formerly 
had  been  so  noticeable,  all  seemed  to  be  erased  and  in 
their  place  was  a  new  expression — an  expression  infinitely 
younger,  as  if  the  glory  of  her  consummated  love  were 
shining  through  as  the  sun  imperceptibly  works  its  way 
down  to  earth  through  a  heavy  fog. 

The  following  morning,  complete  readjustment  had 
taken  place.  As  they  ate  their  lunch  he  told  her  what 
he  had  gone  through  the  night  of  his  illness,  following  his 
adventure  at  the  cafe. 

Jennie's  hands  went  to  her  heart  as  she  listened  to  the 
man  she  loved,  while  Leonard  spoke  seriously,  reverently, 
a  sermon  in  miniature  on  the  mount  of  his  unfortunate 
past.  He  told  her  of  the  smashed  mirror,  of  his  drinking, 
his  collapse  on  the  bed. 

"Then  something  snapped  in  me,"  he  said.  "I  just 
went  to  sleep,  and  in  my  sleep  the  selfish  part  of  me 
'died." 

Jennie  moved  to  protest,  even  framed  a  cry  against  his 


340 


THE    TAKER 


speaking  so  cruelly  of  himself.     But  his  words  kept  her 

silent. 

"Yes,  I  just  died.  Every  drop  of  me  that  used  to  count 
is  gone.  I  am  through  with  the  old  scheme.  I'm  new 
because  my  soul  is  new.  My  body  doesn't  count  any  more, 
so  its  growing  old  can't  bother  me.  That's  what  I've 
learnt.  My  body  can  age,  but  I  own  my  soul,  now  and 
forever.  I've  dug  the  grave  for  my  poor  foolish  body  and 
the  thoughts  it  carried,  and  buried  it.  I'm  emancipated, 
Jennie,  free,  and  I'm  going  to  love  you  and  you — you'll 
love  me,  won't  you?" 

Jennie  was  enthralled.  "Love  you !"  she  cried.  "Why, 
I  love  you  with  every  breath  of  me  as  long  as  I  live."  She 
had  to  wait  some  time  before  she  could  go  on  wording 
what  she  wanted  to  say.  Then  she  controlled  herself. 
She  took  his  fingers  and  entwined  them  within  her  own. 
Earnestly  she  said:  "You  know  I  had  to  go  through  just 
what  you  had  to  get  free.  That's  why  I  was  able  to 
wait  for  you.  That's  why  my  love  didn't  die."  She  looked 
up.  "We've  never  talked  like  this,  have  we,  Leonard?" 

He  corrected  her.    "We've  never  talked  at  all,  Jennie." 

"Well,  I  loved  you  so  in  the  old  days.  I  never  thought 
about  anything  else  but  just  what  I  could  see.  I  was 
contented  with  a  nice  home  and  contented  more  with  your 
handsome  looks.  But  after  you  left  me,  I  grew  to  won- 
dering if  that  was  all  there  was  to  life.  You  see  I  had 
to,"  she  broke  off.  Then  she  went  on  even  more  quietly: 
"I  learnt  a  good  deal  after  that,  Leonard.  I  was  alone 
so  much  and  watched  you  all  the  time — watched  you  go 
through — oh,  Leonard,  so  many  mistakes.  I  just  had 
to  realise  that  one  of  us  was  wrong.  But  my  love  for  you 
grew  all  the  time.  That  was  the  strange  part  of  it." 


THE    TAKER  341 

She  stopped  short,  breathless  from  the  excitement  of 
her  confession. 

And  as  Leonard  watched  her  he  murmured,  studying  her 
eyes  closely: 

"Just  to  think  that  I  couldn't  know." 

Then  he  rose  and  walked  over  towards  the  window, 
swaying  from  emotion  as  he  walked,  as  if  he  were  reeling 
under  an  overwhelming  revelation.  He  was  at  the  window 
some  moments  before  he  said,  without  turning: 

"No,  I  couldn't  know,  Jennie.  I  just  had  to  learn — 
this  way." 

In  another  moment  she,  too,  rose  from  the  table  and 
joined  him  at  the  window.  Putting  her  arm  around  his 
shoulders,  she  stood  looking  down  with  him  at  the  rest- 
less Broadway  crowd  below  them.  "Anyway,  Leonard, 
you're  not  dead,"  she  murmured  slowly.  "You're  alive 
for  the  first  time,  maybe.  Maybe  we've  found  real  life — 
for  the  first  time." 

Reaching  up,  she  drew  his  face  down  to  her. 

"Leonard !     My  husband !"  she  cried. 

His  arms  encircled  her  and  crushed  her  to  him  as  he 
answered,  full  of  emotion: 

"Jennie — Jennie  1" 


CHAPTER  XLII 

THEY   went   down    into    the   main    dining-room    for 
dinner.     Jennie  could  hardly  contain  herself  from 
the  joy  of  being  with  Leonard  again,  while  he,  perceiving 
the  joy  he  gave  her,  was  also  actually  happy. 

As  they  sat  down,  he  said  to  her :  "Jennie,  this  is  fine, 
isn't  it?"  And  he  patted  her  hand  across  the  table. 
From  the  fathomless  expression  in  her  eyes,  she  might 
have  been  peering  back  in  defiance  across  the  ocean  of 
time  that  no  longer  would  ever  separate  them.  She  was 
just  happy — happy.  Turning  to  Leonard  after  he  had 
ordered  the  meal,  she  exclaimed: 

"Let's  make  this  our  honeymoon,  Leonard — the  begin- 
ning of  our  journey  into  a  different  life." 

He  was  about  to  answer  her  when  the  orchestra  started 
up  a  soft  crooning  melody,  carried  mostly  by  the  violins. 
For  some  time  they  were  held  by  the  pliant  strains,  only 
looking  at  each  other  with  a  deep  silence.  Then  the 
music  quietened,  a  fusillade  of  sharp  high  notes  came 
from  the  horns,  the  drum  began  a  quick  crackling  rhythm, 
the  bass  notes  of  the  larger  horns  became  loud  and  sonor- 
ous, and  for  a  time  their  entire  attention  was  held  by  the 
musical  director.  But  soon  the  violins  crept  back  with 
their  singing,  swaying  music  like  sheep  stealing  in  between 
herds  of  cattle;  the  blatant  sounds  softened  back  into 
melody  again  and  Jennie  looked  up  at  Leonard.  Full  of 
elation,  she  exclaimed: 

"Isn't  this  just  wonderful,  Leonard?"  Then  another 
thought  came  to  her.  "You  make  a  request,"  she  said, 
"just  for  you  and  me."  She  thought  on  for  a  moment. 
"Ask  them  to  play  something  they  used  to  play  for  us." 

342 


THE    TAKER  343 

"Do  you  know  the  Scheherezade  ?"  But  he  choked  off 
the  sentence  as  a  swift  pang  of  recollection  shot  through 
him.  However,  she  did  not  seem  to  notice  and  he  was 
intensely  relieved  when  she  called  to  the  waiter  who  was 
standing  at  her  side:  "Have  them  play  one  of  those  In- 
dian Love  Lyrics."  Turning  to  Leonard  she  added : 

"You'll  love  it,  dear." 

As  she  spoke  a  curtain  of  sadness  seemed  to  drop 
across  her  face,  offering  an  especially  unfavourable  con- 
trast to  two  young  girls  whom  Leonard  now  perceived 
were  taking  the  next  table.  The  taller  of  the  two  was 
exceptionally  pretty,  her  full  cheeks  and  tall  figure  had 
the  inviting  perfection  of  desirous  youth.  The  other  was 
not  so  unusual-looking,  but  her  gown  fitted  her  trimly  and 
there  was  an  arrangement  of  it  over  her  breasts  and 
shoulders  that  revealed  a  fulness  which  Leonard  noticed 
for  the  first  time  was  lacking  now  in  Jennie. 

Then  Leonard  shifted  his  gaze  and,  calling  the  waiter, 
ordered  a  bottle  of  wine.  Somehow  his  words,  "Pommery 
— Simple  Sec."  actually  frightened  him  with  a  shaft  of 
reminiscence  he  could  not  explain. 

For  a  minute  or  more  he  sought  for  the  answer,  while 
better  to  veil  his  thoughts  from  Jennie  he  lost  himself 
in  observing  the  people  crowd  into  the  dining-room,  flut- 
tering and  hunting  for  reservations  with  their  knowing 
glances  at  the  head-waiter. 

Then  he  exclaimed:  "Jen,  I  wonder  why  people  don't 
think  more.  I  used  to  come  in  here  every  day  and  yet 
to-night  is  the  first  time  that  I  seem  to  see  a  sort  of 
fatality  hanging  over  everybody — "  he  corrected  himself, 
"everybody  but  you  and  me." 

"You  mean "  she  interrupted. 

"Oh,  that  we're  probably  the  only  ones  in  the  room 


344  THE    TAKER 

who  have  discovered  the  true — essence  of  life — and  dis- 
carded everything  else.  Every  one  here  is  so  anxious!}' 
eating  or  trying  to  make  an  impression  or  flirting — or 
lying.  Oh,  it's  pitiable!  People  are  their  own  assassins 
of  pleasure." 

He  stopped  his  harangue  to  which  Jennie  listened  with. 
an  adoring  interest.  From  where  he  sat  he  caught  a 
vision  under  a  chair  of  a  pair  of  deliciously  formed  brown 
silk-clad  ankles.  He  had  to  grope  in  his  mind  for  some 
time  before  he  could  gather  his  thoughts  again.  Jennie 
brought  him  back,  saying: 

"Leonard,  I'll  make  you  forget  all  the  lonesome  days. 
And  we'll  be  awfully  happy,  won't  we?" 

He  looked  at  her  vaguely.  The  music  had  started  up 
and  bothered  him  queerly.  But  he  managed: 

**You  bet  we  will,  my  dear." 

While  a  fleeting  wish  stole  through  his  mind  that  he 
might  be  able,  by  some  magic,  to  smooth  away  the  wrin- 
kles he  saw  about  her  love-hungry  eyes  and  make  of  them 
a  better  contrast  to  the  soft  glances  of  the  girl  facing 
him.  However,  he  fought  off  the  thought  in  the  instant 
and  Jennie  was  relieved  to  see  his  face  brighten  again,  and 
to  hear  him  say:  "I  tell  you  what  we'll  do.  As  soon  as 
dinner  is  over,  we'll  drive  down  and  hear  the  opera." 

This  was  a  new  thought  and  immediately  both  busied 
themselves  in  ascertaining  what  the  bill  was  at  the  Metro- 
politan. At  last  Jennie  found  from  the  "caption"  that  it 
was  "Carmen"  with  Alda  in  the  title  role. 

"I'm  sorry  it  isn't  Farrar,"  Leonard  said,  "but  it'll  be 
interesting  just  the  same." 

It  was  a  quarter-past  eight,  Leonard  observed,  when 
they  rose  from  the  table  and  he  suggested  to  Jennie  that 
she  go  upstairs  and  get  her  wraps. 


THE    TAKER  345 

"While  you're  going  up  I'll  get  a  cigar,"  he  said,  in- 
deed perplexed  (although  he  would  not  let  the  full  truth 
of  it  reveal  itself)  that  he  should  prefer  to  stay  down  in 
the  lobby  and  watch  the  crowds. 

He  took  her  to  the  bronze  elevator  doors,  remarking  as 
he  placed  her  in  one  of  the  cages  about  to  ascend: 

"Hurry  down,  dear,  won't  you?" 

But  on  his  way  into  the  lobby  again,  he  could  not  dis- 
pose of  the  thought  that  she  had  scrutinised  him  in  a  quiz- 
zical sort  of  way,  as  if  to  say,  "You  could  have  come  up 
with  me." 

He  walked  through  the  lobby  slowly  towards  the  cigar- 
stand,  possessed  by  a  feeling  of  momentary  freedom  that 
he  no  longer  stopped  to  analyse. 

It  was  queer,  too,  that  just  as  he  passed  the  desk  the 
two  girls  from  the  dining-room  should  brush  by  him  as 
they  hurried  out  toward  the  revolving  door.  In  fact — 
he  could  not  be  sure  of  it — the  younger  one  seemed  to  let 
her  beautiful  eyes  cross  his  glance,  in  a  fleeting  look  of 
recognition.  It  took  some  control  of  his  will  to  keep 
from  walking  out  toward  the  door  after  them. 

He  was  in  a  daze  until  he  found  himself  at  the  cigar- 
stand,  asking  the  dark-eyed  young  woman  back  of  the 
counter  for  a  "Bock  Panetela." 

"A  very  light  one,"  he  said  kindly. 

Then  he  noticed  that  she  was  a  new  girl,  one  that  he 
had  never  seen  before.  Also  she  had  a  shyness  about 
her  that  was  indeed  attractive. 

As  he  lit  his  cigar,  he  asked:  "You're  new  here?" 

She  smiled.  "Yes,  worked  at  the  Van  Nuys  in  Albany, 
only  came  down  last  night." 

As  she  talked  she  had  a  way  of  leaning  across  the  glass 
case  in  a  manner  that  displayed  two  beautifully  formed 


346  THE    TAKER 

forearms.  Also  Leonard  observed  that  her  skin  was 
soft  and  of  a  very  fine  texture. 

Then  he  looked  up,  as  if  by  some  prescience,  and  saw 
Jennie  coming  across  the  lobby,  searching  for  him  with 
her  tired-looking  eyes.  Quickly  he  paid  the  girl,  wished 
her  "Good-night,"  to  which  she  responded  with  a  sweet- 
ness that  bespoke  at  once  both  invitation  and  regret,  and 
hurried  off.  When  he  reached  Jennie's  side  he  noticed 
that  she  anxiously  searched  his  face.  "Leonard,  I 
thought  I  had  lost  you,  dear,"  she  exclaimed. 

"I  was  just  buying  a  cigar,"  he  answered.  A  certain 
resentment  swept  over  him  and  rather  forcibly,  as  if  some 
long  inert  savagery  had  beset  him,  he  took  her  arm 
and  turned  her  toward  the  door. 

But  it  was  not  until  they  were  out  under  the  white 
arcs  of  the  hotel  entrance  and  getting  into  the  waiting 
limousine  that  he  noticed  how  pale  and  drawn  she  was. 
For  the  instant  a  thought  racked  him  that  perhaps  she 
was  trying  to  discover  the  emotions  that  were  charging 
with  unrest  his  mind  and  soul.  They  were  seated  in  the 
car,  however,  and  driving  toward  the  Metropolitan  before 
he  heard  Jennie  question  his  silence.  "Leonard,  you  have 
gotten  so  quiet — all  of  a  sudden.  What's  the  trouble, 
dear?" 

He  continued  to  lean  on  his  cane  and  stare  out  of 
the  window  at  the  gaily  passing  crowds,  allowing  his 
eyes  melancholically  to  search  each  passing  face.  He 
could  hardly  keep  himself  from  turning  resentfully  on 
the  anxious  eyes  and  quivering  mouth  that  he  knew  were 
Egging  at  his  side.  At  last  he  answered  her. 

"I've  got  a  little  headache,"  he  said.  "I'll  be  all  right 
in  a  few  minutes." 

THE    END 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBRJRY  FACH 


A     000125500     9 


